


catching and releasing

by renlybardatheon (aheartcalledhome)



Series: time is just a symptom of love [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Pain, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, brienne of tarth lady protector of the bottoms, canon-typical knightsexual antics, not for cersei fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/renlybardatheon
Summary: it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single westerosi nobleman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a gentle wife and a loyal knight. luckily, jaime lannister has found both in one person.





	catching and releasing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firbolging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firbolging/gifts), [JackNSallyGal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackNSallyGal/gifts).

> thank you all so much for being so kind in your reviews of the last part of this series. this part has been written for some time but i wanted to get all my friends' thoughts and give the piece time to sit in my head and develop! hopefully you enjoy this one as much as the last!
> 
> there is also [a playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7oXmxEGYxXgi69CX96LlFT), just like there was [a playlist for part one](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2n82qC6aKs3M1t0GxhaRS4), and i hope you enjoy it! the fic was named for the deepend remix of matt simon's catching and releasing, which is a nice relaxing jam if anyone needs one.
> 
> special shoutouts to [dorcasdeadowes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcasdeadowes/pseuds/dorcasdeadowes) and [jacknsallygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackNSallyGal/pseuds/JackNSallyGal), who basically carried me through writing this fic. all positive credit goes to them. don't flame them, though. that's for me.
> 
> i did want to address something before we get any further: jaime is disabled in this fic. the loss of his hand continues to affect him, even if it isn't literal, as it was in canon. if this bothers anyone, feel free to click out of here. as someone who deals with the struggles that mobility/grip issues can engender in my own life, i didn't want to erase something that became such a huge part of who jaime was by the end of the tv series and by the end of adwd in the book series. i didn't want to be complicit in the curing of a disabled character as part of their "best timeline". i have seen it happen too often and it hurts. i didn't want to do it myself.
> 
> hopefully this doesn't turn too many people off it. i don't want to list "scenes to skip" or anything of the sort because it does affect the plot in a myriad of ways. i'm doing this for myself and i hope others see the same good in it that i did!
> 
> have fun with braime and don't forget to tell me what you thought about it, if you make it to the end!
> 
> -s

Being a teenager the first time around had been excruciatingly awkward -- Jaime had felt like he’d been catapulted into a new body overnight, and now, in his second bout with puberty, he actually had been, making things twice as uncomfortable and annoying. He much preferred the aches and pains of middle age to feeling like he was seconds from screaming and crying at any given moment, but it was all Jaime had, so it was all Jaime could work with.

Tyrion was much better company than he had been when Jaime was young, which likely had something to do with what he’d overheard of the fight with Cersei. Tyrion now looked at Jaime like he’d hung the stars, and whenever Jaime even suggested something that Tyrion could do, he rushed away to complete the task immediately, little brow creased in concentration. While Tyrion had idolized Jaime in their first childhood together, this was something else. This was respect. Jaime had never earned it from Tyrion so early, and found himself enjoying it immensely.

His memories of his first set of teenage years were marked by sorrow and feeling awfully powerless against the machinations of Cersei and his father. But among the many things that had changed, since Jaime’s introduction into this world, one hadn’t. Though Jaime didn’t feel anything resembling confident quite yet, he certainly felt better than he had the first time around. Cersei had less power over him and the quality of his life and Tyrion’s had markedly improved for it. He was certain that the more times he told her where to put her opinion, the more he and his brother would both find peace of mind.

His right hand was still vacillating wildly between useless and something akin to functionality, but only in the loosest of terms. Some mornings, he would wake with an ache so severe in his arm, poison trapped between his shoulder and wrist, that he hardly saw any purpose in getting out of bed. Other mornings, it was simply a dull, manageable ache, turning the edges of his vision fuzzy with pain. His muscles twitched and jumped, the discordant symphony of their motion visible through his skin, and he bore the pain as he would any other -- bravely and in silence.

He wouldn’t dare make it a public spectacle -- if he did, the reason for his withdrawal from pursuit of the once empty spot in Aerys’ Kingsguard would be made public. The Lion of Lannister, his sword hand rendered useless. He had been pitied for it once before, had been laughed at and insulted for it, and he saw no need to face that misery if his hand was still attached to his wrist. Whether it could wield a sword or not mattered not to him. It was all about the visual, what others could see.

He was used to living without his right hand, compensating for a lack of functionality that had become a daily routine. The golden hand had been too heavy and unwieldy for anything other than holding wine glasses and had left awful bruises and scratches along his sore stump, making every movement painful. He’d found it easier to simply do everything one handed, and had had enough practice that, even in this new body, it was second nature.

He stretched, his elbows scraping against the stone floor of the balcony as the evening sun warmed his skin. For all the threat of taking a wife had been his way of putting more distance between himself and Cersei, it seemed to be a requirement more than an option. If he were to be Lord of the Rock, Tywin would want him promised, if not married, to someone that could benefit the Lannisters. Jaime had seen Tarth once, in his first life, from a boat headed to Dorne. But he knew what Brienne had told him about it -- a healthy fishing industry, a surplus of men trained in fighting that would gladly join an army if they were paid well, the marble quarries that the children would watch the miners attack from the top of the closest hill, hands over their ears to protect against the clanging of picks.

There would be advantages (for Tywin Lannister, for Casterly Rock) in this match, and that was all Jaime’s father would care about. Not his son’s heart, not the match his son stood to make, not the hand that shook and shivered in bursts at his son’s side, despite Jaime’s best efforts to hide it. He would be thinking of shipping ports, of the expansion of the Lannister army. It was left to Jaime to think of which betrothal would be at Brienne’s doorstep now, of the three Selwyn had entertained on her behalf, or whether she was beyond them all, the same wounded Brienne he had met years later, carrying the scars that men who had thrown her aside had left behind.

If he could save her any of that sorrow, he would gladly do it.

He needed a wife and Brienne needed someone to see her as she was, to let her live as she was, and Jaime found himself waking from dreams in which he called Brienne “Lady Lannister” and, in these dreams, she smiled more often than not. Even here, laid out in the dying sun like a puppy drunk on warmth, his thoughts were with Brienne, with the approximation of what she must look like that he’d cobbled together from her descriptions. There would be no bear pit for this Brienne, no Bloody Mummers, no shadow-creature. Instead, she would have Jaime, without conditions, from the beginning -- the man he should’ve been from the day they met, understanding of the trials she would face ahead and willing to do anything in his power to deliver her to her dreams without a single stumble along the way.

All he had to do was get Brienne, her father, and Tywin to agree to the arrangement, which would prove more troublesome than not. He knew how to prove himself to Brienne, had done so numerous times before, but never a Brienne of this age, who he’d never known before. By that reckoning, even Tywin’s unyielding concern for his own riches would be easier to appeal to than Brienne’s bruised heart.

Jaime Lannister had dug himself a bear pit in loving Brienne so dearly that he wished for a marriage and he was ready to throw himself into it, wholeheartedly.

* * *

More than Jaime’s right hand was shaking when he entered Tywin’s office, a lump of emotion weighing heavy in his throat. He had never been fond of his father, and he suspected it was mutual. Tywin Lannister had never wanted children and he had never shied away from making it public knowledge -- he certainly hadn’t bargained for twins the first time around, and Tyrion the second.

Jaime had heard that he was a different man when Jaime’s mother was around, that he had been sweet with Jaime and Cersei when they were infants, letting Cersei ride on his shoulders around Casterly Rock and bringing boiled sugar sweets back from the market for Jaime to suck on while he sat in Tywin’s lap. Jaime had heard plenty about Joanna Lannister, about how she’d had the softest heart and the kindest smile, but he remembered nothing beyond a few hummed bars of a lullaby and a soft hand against his cheek.

Unfortunately, he remembered plenty about her husband Tywin.

“What is it?” Tywin’s words were clipped, lips curled in disgust. Jaime had obviously interrupted something, by daring to ask for an ounce of his father’s attention, and Tywin wasn’t having it. “Speak up, boy.”

“I won’t join the Kingsguard.” Jaime mumbled. “I want the Rock.”

“Louder, Jaime.” Tywin groaned. “Who are you speaking to? Your feet?”

“I won’t join the Kingsguard.”

Anger and pride turned Tywin’s already severe face statuesque. Jaime knew his father had never wanted him to join the Kingsguard -- doing so would put Tyrion first in line for the Rock, and Tywin had never thought anything else so abhorrent -- but turning down a position in the Kingsguard was wasting a once in a lifetime opportunity. “I want the Rock.” Tywin’s expression brightened then and Jaime allowed himself a sigh of relief. “I can start helping out with ruling the Rock. It’ll be less work for you, between being the Hand and Warden of the West.”

Jaime knew Aerys well, his capriciousness and his tendency toward paranoia. No doubt he was already suspecting Tywin of treacherous thoughts -- it was why he had extended the Kingsguard offer to Jaime at all. And for Jaime to reject the offer, when another legitimate son stood ready to inherit in his place, would fall exactly in line with a teenager not understanding what a gift he was being offered, had that teenager not spent his whole life saying his dream was the Kingsguard. His own dream, given to him by Aerys, and here he was, rejecting it. But he knew better this time -- last time, he hadn’t seen the poisoned gift for what it was, and it had ended with his sword dripping with Aerys’ blood.

He wanted to know what it might be like, a life without being known as the Kingslayer. Because if he joined the Kingsguard, that was where it would always end.

“So,” Tywin challenged. “What will you do to secure the Rock?”

“I’ll take a wife.” Jaime said quickly. This part was crucial -- he’d been practicing for days now, culling notes from the thick books in all the libraries in Casterly Rock, mining memories out of his own mind. “I have an alliance in mind.”

“Do you, now?” Tywin raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyeing Jaime like he was a threat, like his audacity to dictate the terms of his own marriage was anything but a display of defiance. “And what would that be?”

“Lord Selwyn of Tarth has a daughter.” Jaime said and his father let out a guffaw, eyes wide. He had never seen Tywin laugh before. “She stands to inherit Tarth, and along with it--”

“Lord Selwyn of Tarth’s daughter? That great old oaf?” Tywin cut him off, incredulous. “I’ve had the misfortune of seeing the child. You truly think you can do no better, Jaime? The Tyrells of Highgarden, Crakehall’s daughter. Father above, you’ve been promised to Lysa Tully. You think Riverrun will take your little temper tantrum well? You think they will settle for Tyrion?”

“Brienne of Tarth, or I won’t marry at all.” Jaime said, eyes sparking like flint. “Or I’ll join the Kingsguard.”

“Or you’ll join the Kingsguard, the same Kingsguard you just finished saying you don’t want to join. Is she so important to you, this no-name lady from a useless island out in the Narrow Sea?” Tywin snorted. “Spare me the speech, Jaime--”

“Tarth is rich in men and marble, both of which we could use. The first for the Lannister army, the second to sell on the mainland. Lannisport could be rich, and we could control the trade of that marble to Dorne and the Free Cities as well as the rest of Westeros.” Jaime said, his words all a blur, each one spoken twenty, thirty times over to the mirror in his bedroom. “We have men to add to their quarry staff. It would be mutually beneficial, and it doesn’t take a merchant’s mind to see it. Tarth’s location makes it ideal to control shipping routes -- if we had such an alliance with Lord Selwyn, we could control shipping to the Free Cities as well as we control routes over land and sea in Westeros.”

“You have certainly thought about this.” Tywin allowed reluctantly. “Think of this: the Tullys of Riverrun are ready and willing, a more highborn house than those louts on Tarth, and would bring more to the table. I have one son who will warrant a good marriage and he wishes to marry a fisherwoman. Typical.”

“You don’t have any.” Jaime said softly, and held up his right hand, which still shook, his fingers bent in an awkward position, stuck as if they’d been turned to stone. He felt awful, bargaining his match to Brienne using his hand, but it was the only reason Tywin would allow it at all. If he thought Jaime still had value as a swordsman, as a knight, he would use it. Tywin was an honorable man, at his heart. He could excuse any amount of treachery against a man that deserved it, but if he knew his son wasn’t what he’d claimed, he wouldn’t tell the world more lies than he had. “If anyone finds out, if the Tullys know, it all ends. Cersei is your only chance at a good marriage. The Tullys don’t have a son of a proper age, but I suggest you focus your efforts there.”

“Your hand.” Tywin said softly, looking concerned for the first time since Jaime had entered the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime replied, rubbing at the side of his palm to try and loosen his fingers from the claw they had twisted themselves into. “I woke up one morning and it was like this. I can’t-- I’ve been practicing with my sword, but…” He swallowed hard. “It doesn’t seem to be an option. The quickest way to put the Lion of Lannister to bed is for me to marry and take on Casterly Rock. It’s the best option for all of us. If I get revealed as a fraud of a knight, then no one will marry me.” Two of his fingers remained stubbornly curled into his palm, aching with a desperate fury. “I can hide inside Casterly Rock. I can hide on Tarth. Riverrun… they will see me for who I am within seconds.”

“There is no need for anyone to find out anything.”

“Anything?” Jaime was flush with disbelief. What was his father’s plan now? “What, that Tywin Lannister breeds only monstrous, broken children?”

“Do not--”

“If the Tullys find out about my hand, then Cersei’s value to them and to any noble house goes down. Then Tyrion, who might have fetched a match should we have both married well, does not. You doom the rest of your children along with me to get your precious Tully match, and Lord Tully has the marriage annulled. And that is all the best case scenario.”

For the first time, Jaime saw fear in his father’s eyes, but it was quickly beaten back -- Tywin Lannister never stayed down for long.

“You cannot join the Kingsguard like this.” Tywin said, eyes filled with a particular black enthusiasm that Jaime knew well from seeing it in Cersei’s eyes. “You have been bluffing.”

“I can still take the Black.” Jaime said, and Tywin’s face took on the appearance of a Death Mask. “I won’t marry to live out a lie, Father--”

“And so you will marry for what? For marble quarries and shipping routes? For utility and men for our army?” Tywin roared. “What will you marry for? Her looks?”

“Yes.” Jaime said. “I will marry for all of it. I want no part of Lysa Tully and I will tell her to her face.” He scowled at Tywin, his heart beating like a trapped hummingbird. “And if I take the Black, Tyrion will rule from Casterly Rock. He will do a better job than you ever have or ever will.”

“How dare you--”

“A traitor’s son won’t fetch too high of a price, Father. How long are you willing to let me drag this out?” Jaime said. This was the last weapon in his arsenal. He knew how long before Robert’s Rebellion Tywin had started planning -- between him and the Cleganes, they had been plotting Aerys’ demise since the day he’d named Tywin Hand. “Are you willing to delay your plan forever for my sake? Are you willing to suffer Aerys for years while I refuse your counsel?”

“A traitor?” Tywin spluttered. “I am Hand to the King. How dare you make empty accusations of treachery? How dare you act as if I might betray my King?”

“Don’t you find it odd that Aerys was willing to offer a position on the Kingsguard to me? There are plenty of men grown in Westeros, many older, wiser, and stronger than I. And yet he chose me, Tywin Lannister’s son, so recently knighted. What for?”

“You have made a name for yourself.” Tywin said, the old certainty creeping back into his hawk-like features. “Separate from mine.”

“Or perhaps it was the Lannister part of the name he was interested in. A way to control the Westerlands without you involved.” Jaime knew these things because Aerys had told them to him, when he’d stood at the man’s side, the sharp knives of the Iron Throne too close for comfort. “I may know how to resist you, but do you think Aerys cares one whit about my hand? Do you think I stand a chance against Aerys Targaryen? Do you think he wants me for the Lion’s deeds or the Lannister name? Because I know which he wants. I know why he chose me over any other knight that would have gladly served the purpose. Do you?”

“Lies,” Tywin hissed.

“Would you like to find out for yourself?” Jaime asked. “Or would you rather trust your son? Because if you don’t, you’re putting your ‘only good son’ in the hands of a king who would love nothing more than to destroy you, and the Rock in the hands your worst nightmare.”

“I will write to Lord Selwyn of Tarth.” Tywin said through gritted teeth. “If he finds himself… amenable to this match, we will see how things proceed. In the meantime, if you are sent anything by any member of the Kingsguard, I should like to see it. To read it for myself.”

Jaime couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Of course, Father.” He said, jubilant. “That sounds reasonable.”

* * *

“I heard Father sent a raven to Tarth.” Cersei didn’t mince words, her lips twisted into a grimace, her emerald eyes burning like wildfire. “To Tarth. I saw the heir to Tarth once, at a tournament. She’s awful. Ugly, if I’m being kind, and suffering delusions of knighthood besides. Is that the kind of wife you want, Jaime? It’s all you seem to think you deserve.”

She crowded into his space, like she was expecting him to let her back him into a corner, their old familiar game playing out again. Her honeyed words slipped and slid their way to his brain through his ears, but they didn’t feel as sweet as they once had -- maybe because he saw the threats hidden within them.

“Why hurt yourself like that, sweet brother?” She said softly, as if they were compatriots, as if they truly stood to benefit equally from her plan. “The Kingsguard is always an option for you. You can take the white and you won’t have to worry about the Rock. I know it stresses you so, thinking of the letters you’ll have to write, the books you’ll have to oversee.” She had never cared about him in the way she so comfortably insinuated now. It sickened him to see the farce of her affection so transparently played out before him. “You can be in King’s Landing with me. Father has promised I will be Queen. Rhaegar won’t mind if I keep my twin close.”

It shocked him, to hear Rhaegar’s name in place of Robert’s, but she would think it was Rhaegar that would marry her still. She knew the prophecy already, but she couldn’t know it would be Robert Baratheon she would marry; even if Lord Robert of Storm’s End was a different creature than King Robert. Even if Jaime didn’t want Cersei for himself, even if he despised her for what she’d made him, he didn’t want her to suffer. He was a good brother, at the end of the day, and a good brother always wanted his sister happy, no matter how deeply she’d hurt him.

Perhaps it would be Rhaegar’s name forever here -- when he had acceded to the Kingsguard in his first life, Aerys had rejected his father’s proposal as a show of disrespect, a clear display of his strength, having the intended Lannister heir in his grasp forever. He’d never wanted Cersei to marry his son -- only a pawn to ensure Tywin’s compliance. Now that Jaime had rejected his offer here, would Cersei marry Rhaegar?

Would a Lannister sit on the Iron Throne beside a Targaryen?

Instead Jaime stood his ground, shoulders back and back straight, head held high. She wouldn’t embarrass him for seeking goodness for himself. She didn’t know better than to poke at any exposed bit of his heart with her needling words, but he knew better than to allow her the satisfaction of a reaction. His silence rattled her, set her mind to whirring off in directions best left unexplored, her eyes wilder than those of a caged animal.

“Rhaegar might not mind.” Jaime said. “But I will.” He drew a deep breath in through his nose, eyes fluttering closed. “You may not have thought Brienne a beauty. She may not be. But there is more to a person than what you see. And if Father proposed the alliance, there must be something.”

“It’s an island.” Cersei drawled. “He’ll find a use for it as surely as you’ll find a use for the girl. Or certain parts of her at least.” She scoffed, looking rather petulant. “King’s Landing is so lonely without you, Jaime. How could you do this to me? I just want us to be together.” False tears swam in her eyes. “Reconsider, for me.”

Jaime had lived enough lives to know that Cersei felt threatened. The realization that she could no longer expect him to mindlessly do her bidding would be crushing, and here she was, taking on new forms before him. Jaime was no longer her pawn, and she couldn’t imagine life without him pinned neatly under her thumb.

“I want the Rock, Cersei. I want to love the Westerlands like the smallfolk deserve.” Jaime said, a quiet kind of reverence stealing into his voice. “I want Father to be able to devote himself to the business of being the Hand instead of having to split his time and attention in so many directions. If he stays in King’s Landing, you’ll have him. And I know Tyrion wants to come to court someday, if only to watch from a distance--”

“It’s you I want!” Cersei hissed, like a child being denied a treat. Was that all he’d meant to her? “I don’t care if I have Father, or if I have that nasty little devil! I want you!”

“You can’t have me.” Jaime said, the strong will he’d prayed for as a child finally making itself known. Cersei trembled before him. He thought he would feel pride, but he only felt sorrow, for her, for the lonely, pitiful path she would tread now, having isolated herself from everyone who cared about her. “I’m sorry. It’s best for both of us.”

“When have you known what’s best for both of us?” She spat.

“For a lot longer than you have.” Jaime said softly, and turned on his heel, marching down the hallway, leaving Cersei bobbing in his wake like a boat without oars.

* * *

“Jaime, hurry!” Tyrion scrambled down the side of the low cliff face to the water, a familiar pastime whenever they both had a few hours to themselves, the rocky outcroppings providing excellent footholds for men of any size. Jaime followed him down considerably more cautiously, none of Tyrion’s reckless enthusiasm present in his older brother.

For a boy who had adored the idea of knighthood so thoroughly, had devoted every second of his free time to chasing it down like prey, Jaime Lannister had been a careful child -- stupid, but careful. He had climbed down stairs with both hands on the railing, especially spiral staircases, which he had often cried about in his early childhood while Tywin rolled his eyes. (He had been, very rightfully, convinced that they were the devil’s tongue given physical shape, and when he thought very hard about it, he could remember his mother telling him it was perfectly acceptable to be afraid of things he could not explain.) He could not deny his nature in climbing down a rock face with only one reliable hand, and was relieved when both his feet were back on solid ground.

Tyrion had always been more reckless than Jaime or Cersei combined, all sunshine and sharp edges, playing fast and loose with his safety from the day he’d perfected the ability to run. An inordinately cheerful child, given the life Tywin and Cersei had crowded him into, devoted to anyone who would have his loyalty. He hopped up and down in the sand here, twirling in circles from time to time with the unique glee of little children disobeying their parents, mischief dancing in his eyes as he kicked up sprays of sand into the air.

“Tyrion, be careful!” Jaime called out, but Tyrion didn’t listen. He never did. He fell to his knees, digging his hands deep into the sand, and throwing handfuls of it at the ocean, hollering at the top of his lungs. This was what a childhood was -- this reckless abandon, this booming, blaring noise, this all-encompassing joy -- these little puzzle pieces of a beautiful, meaningful existence that Jaime and Tyrion could only cobble together when far away from Cersei and their father.

It was hardly a beach, this little stretch of shore, the sand littered with little rocks and shards of glass, but the boys picked the safest places to put their feet with the surety of experience, strolling the length of it and doubling back in comfortable silence once Tyrion, sick to his stomach from yelling, had taxed his voice far too much. Tyrion’s warm, sweaty hand slid into Jaime’s own while they negotiated a particularly treacherous cluster of sharp rocks, a subtle baring of the neck from one lion to another, and Jaime squeezed it tight. There would only be so many more years for this, so many more moments for this sweet kindness to pass between them. Everything was finite, and Jaime and Tyrion stood on the precipice of manhood, each glancing at the other from time to time to ascertain that his brother was still who he remembered, was still waiting, hand safely in his.

“The cave?” Tyrion said softly, his words ragged and worn from yelling at the sea, and Jaime smiled, pulling him by the hand toward one of the rough-hewn openings in the rock that he, Cersei, and Tyrion had often played in as children, bringing their toys down to the ocean to toss into the sea (as Cersei had, for the sole purpose of crying to Tywin about after for a replacement) or bury in the sand before resurrecting, a particular favorite of Jaime and Tyrion’s.

Jaime had to duck his head to enter the cave now, the mouth smaller than he remembered, but the discarded dolls and wooden swords littering the floor only made him feel older than he should have, a garden of memories, a monument to children who’d been outgrown and forgotten. Tyrion picked up a rotting sword, sniffing it experimentally before breaking it against the wall of the cave, and grinned toothily at Jaime, a half in each hand.

“Oops.” Jaime shrugged. “Surely you didn’t do that on purpose, Ser Tyrion.” He bowed low to the music of his brother’s laughter. “You’ll need a new sword.”

“Fetch me one, Squire Jaime.” Tyrion declared, breaking another sword against the wall. “I am rich and money is no consequence. Fetch me the finest blade you can find.”

Jaime rooted about in the sand for a stick of suitable size and knelt, the knees of his breeches dampening from the sand, holding the stick out to Tyrion. “My lord -- Valyrian steel.”

“Valyrian steel?” Tyrion squeaked, and Jaime joined him in laughing, his chest seizing and his eyes filling with tears. “Why, I must have it!”

“What will you name it, my lord?” Jaime asked, in between great heaves of his chest, barely enough breath in his lungs to shape the words. “It must be a noble name, a glorious one--”

“Throatpuncher.” Tyrion declared solemnly, lips twitching as they vainly tried to hide a smile, before dissolving into giggles.

Jaime fell back onto the sandy floor of the cave, stick still in his hands, not caring one whit that his hair would be dirty and he’d be shaking little pieces of grit off of himself for hours after they left. This was the closest he had gotten to happiness, as a child. As an adult, remembering these secret afternoons was the closest he had gotten to peace of mind.

It had never struck him, until now, that the fact that Cersei wasn’t in any of these memories might have been significant.

* * *

There were plenty of empty rooms inside Casterly Rock, despite all the lesser Lannister uncles, aunts, and cousins that could be found in any hallway, in any library, lurking around any corner with their ears at the ready to cling onto any rumor or create one of their own, and Jaime had claimed one for himself. He pushed a few more pieces of furniture against the door, testing it to make sure it was shut tight, before testing the grip of the wooden sword in his right hand. He didn’t trust himself with live steel just yet, and that was just as well, because by the end of his usual warm up exercises, he’d dropped the wooden sword at least eight times.

(To tell the truth, eight was a conservative estimate -- he’d willingly lost count at that point.)

He hadn’t been an expert swordsman in his first life for a long time -- being anything more than a footsoldier had been a dream long out of reach by the time he’d reached Winterfell, ready to give his life in the war against the dead. But this body hadn’t felt that loss as sorely as his old one (his dead one), and there was a sharp pang in his chest, one he hadn’t expected, as if he’d thought that living in another world would entitle him to perfection. He ran through his exercises again, pausing whenever he felt the telltale weakness in his wrist, the strange tingling sensation in his fingers, the burning pain that rolled in waves from his wrist down to his elbow.

He wouldn’t fight right handed in this world either. He shifted the sword to his left hand and tried in vain to remember how he’d trained himself to use it in his first life. Brienne had been instrumental in that too. Would she be again, here? The fingers of his left hand felt foreign, curled around the hilt of a wooden sword. Was it because it had been so long since he’d felt confident enough to use a sword, in this world? Was it because he had known it would end like this?

Brienne had challenged him to think as easily with his left hand as he had with his right -- maybe he’d tie his right hand to his side or his back one day, when it would go relatively unnoticed, and train himself to rely on his left as naturally. He could satisfy his relatives easily with the fact that he was practicing some fancy fighting technique he’d learned from a knight from abroad on his last visit to King’s Landing, a newly developed method to teach knights to guard their weak side better.

There were plenty of explanations that would hold in the short term, but there was no holding his breath about this. He’d lived a shocking amount of his first life without the use of his right hand at all, and here he was, without the complete use of it -- a kinder fate than the Stranger could have left him. He knew how to handle this reality -- it was familiar territory, well tread and marked with his footprints, signs and paths that he had dreamed into being for himself.

Would Brienne be willing to walk this road with him? A Brienne who wouldn’t ever know him with two good hands? A Brienne whose name he had sacrificed nothing in yet? Would she, surely having better options, want to stand tall in the face of Death beside him again? Was it weak, was it naive to think that she might reject him on that point alone? What would a prospective knight want in a husband who could not wield a sword with ease? A husband who had earned himself the name Lion of Lannister and lost it to Death’s impossible card game.

That was what she had gotten in his first life too: a washed up man, drowning under the weight of names others had foisted upon him, unwilling to acknowledge that he could be more. That he could be better. That there was more for him than what flickers of truth others had seen in his heart.

If he truly wanted to deserve Brienne, he should aspire truly to what she had asked from him -- to value himself as much as he valued the opinions of others, to accept his truth alongside theirs. To love others the way he wanted instead of the way they wanted from him, to give only what he could replace, to recognize where to say the word “no”. He had never been good at any of those things, but he had time enough to work toward it. He would be the man she had wanted so desperately to believe could be real in Winterfell, younger and stronger and with years more time at his disposal, when she met him next.

* * *

“The Evenstar has agreed to bring his daughter to Casterly Rock.” Tywin said, the second Jaime closed the ornate doors of Tywin’s study behind him. “Do something about that hand of yours, will you?”

Jaime tried to shake out the tingling feeling in his fingers, but it remained, stubbornly, itching somewhere deep inside his bones, somewhere Jaime’s fingers could never reach.

“Okay.” He nodded, though he wondered what Tywin wanted him to do -- he could hardly grip objects in it some days, and others, it was as if nothing had happened to the hand at all. His hand’s strength was fickle, its mood changing with the tides and the height of the sun in the sky, and he couldn’t very well depend on something so mutable. “I’ll train more, I’ll ask-- I’ll ask the Maesters about--”

“No.” Tywin’s voice was ice cold, sharp enough to shatter glass. “If you know what’s good for you, you will keep your mouth shut like you should’ve from the beginning. I’m allowing you your girl on Tarth only because I do not want you to make a scene. None of this is for you. None of this is about you.”

For a second, his tongue looked forked.

Tywin had never been a kind father, nor a particularly attentive one, living his life out at the intersection of irascible and uncaring, and all three Lannister children had suffered for it, none more than Tyrion and none less than Cersei. Of all his children, Tywin was closest to tolerating Cersei, who he saw enough of himself in to not consider a lost cause. Jaime had been called a pathetic little brute from childhood for daring to show any kindness, and the ease with which Cersei had trampled him into the ground had only fed Tywin’s disgust for his oldest son, surpassed only by how much he hated his youngest.

“This is about securing the money, the power that the Lannisters need. The Evenstar may not have coin, but he has men, and the Lannister Army is always in need of more men. If you cannot keep your mouth shut and your hand out of sight for long enough to be wed to his daughter, then the whole of Westeros will see you for the fool you are. Is that what you want, Jaime? To shame us all?”

“What I want is to live a life I can be proud of.” Jaime said. “And that life, as far as I see it, is best lived with Brienne. With all the men the Evenstar can spare in our army, with all the coin we gain from joining our trade routes to theirs in our coffers.” Tywin looked as close to reproachful as he got, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And whatever it takes to force that end, I will do it. If the Evenstar requires my silence, he shall have it. If his daughter asks for an oath, I will gladly share it. If she asks for my hand, I will give my left.”

He paused for a moment, the strangeness of the words hitting him in full force. He’d given his right hand for Brienne so long ago, his sword hand, his identity, all for her safety. And here, if she asked for his hand, would it not be fitting to give her his right again, in all its imperfection? But his father was right, as he often was in matters of state, and to show any sign of weakness would be to tip the scales of negotiation out of their favor.

“The Evenstar believes his daughter will marry a knight.” Tywin said gruffly. “Do keep up the charade a little longer.”

“The Evenstar’s daughter will marry a knight. My right hand does not make me who I am. It wields a sword, but that can be done with the other.” Jaime said, the words Brienne had kissed into his temples, had whispered against the shell of his ear at Winterfell coming easily to him now. A wellspring of emotion had cracked through the layer of grime around Jaime’s heart, soaking him from the inside in an almost intolerable warmth. “I have my honor. I have the head and heart that Ser Arthur Dayne knighted me for still. Those are harder to replace than a hand.”

“So replace the hand then.”

Tywin pointed toward the door, turning away from Jaime toward the raven sitting on its wooden perch beside the window, its beady eyes shifting around the room as its beak opened and closed. Jaime knew that he’d long overstayed his welcome, but he’d made his point. Well enough, at least, that Tywin wasn’t going to bother fighting him any longer. As long as he did something to prove he was making an effort, as long as any servant reported back that Jaime was training again, Tywin would keep his distance.

There was good, sometimes, in your father not caring enough to keep track of what exactly you did. There was beauty, sometimes, in being a child no one cared for, and all the Lannister children had learned that lesson well and early.

* * *

“Jaime, catch!” Tyrion hollered, before lobbing an orange at Jaime’s head. He lifted his left hand almost instinctively, but fumbled the catch -- knocking the orange aside onto the floor. “Awful showing, brother. With the wrong hand no less.”

“What do I have to gain from one dominant hand? Why not two?” Jaime pointed out. “It would serve me well, in a fight, to not be dependent on one arm remaining uninjured.”

“I don’t think that is what is serving you, brother.” Jaime could feel his fingers, but only vaguely, through a maze of pins and needles, and the slight shake of them as they curled in toward his palm was clearly visible. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand, face flushing an angry red. Tyrion’s word stung like wasps. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Jaime admitted, words barely above a whisper. “But I don’t mind it.”

“For how long?”

“I hurt it when I fought with Cersei, I think.” Jaime hung his head. He felt a soft pressure at his side, then felt Tyrion’s fingers close around his right wrist, not tight enough to hurt -- just enough to remind him that his brother was there, and unafraid of his weakness. That Tyrion was there to supplement Jaime’s weaknesses with his strength, as brothers should be, as all siblings should be. As Cersei never had.

“I was worried she did it to you.” Tyrion’s voice shook, and he looked up at Jaime in fear. “I was worried she hurt you, because you wouldn’t join the Kingsguard, because you said--” He fought bravely to keep his tears back, but Jaime wrapped Tyrion up in his arms, uncaring of the shock of pain that rocketed from his wrist up to his elbow. “Did she-- did she do it because of me?”

“No.” Jaime said, the Mummers weighing heavily on his mind, how his sword hand had paid for Brienne’s safety and then some. How it had been payment for his realization that Cersei was not all she claimed to be, or all he’d dreamed her up to be. “It was never because of you.” He traced the soft curve of Tyrion’s cheek with his good hand. “You are perfect and she doesn’t see it. That is a problem with her, not with you.”

Tyrion nodded stubbornly, eyes still swimming with tears.

“I hate her.” He said, little hands clenching into fists. “I hate her. I hate how-- I hate how she thinks she’s better than me. Better than us. What, does a body that works the way it is expected to mean that much?”

“It means that much to her.” Jaime shrugged, keeping Tyrion close. “And others, perhaps, but we will find our way.” Tyrion looked up at him, confused, and Jaime remembered belatedly that he had seen himself as different, as broken, for much longer than this Tyrion had. He had only just found out about Jaime’s hand -- Jaime had been carrying that knowledge for what felt like a lifetime (and, in fact, had been several). “If the world does not serve us, we make our own. Anywhere I go, you will have a place beside me.”

“Fuck Cersei.” Tyrion spat, and Jaime laughed, ruffling his hair. Tyrion scowled. “I’m trying to be menacing, brother.”

“And I am trying to be your brother.” Jaime teased. “Menace can wait, Tyrion. There are plenty of people in the world to fight, and none are me.”

“So you say.” Tyrion blew a raspberry. “Is it-- is it so bad? The pain? Shall I ask the Maester for something to-- to ease it?”

“No.” It was not nearly as bad as the way his stump would ache from wearing the golden hand, the places where the straps had pressed too tightly against his skin red, raw, and aching. “Bearing it keeps my mind sharp. Keeps me ready.” He squeezed Tyrion’s shoulder. “Should you need anything of… a similar nature, I will make sure you receive it.”

“You are the first person to say that.” Tyrion said, awestruck, and Jaime’s heart ached for his brother, how lonely he must have felt in that first life, long ago, with no one to know his heart. “You are the first person to tell me that-- that--” He hiccuped and Jaime burst out laughing, which didn’t help Tyrion’s case -- he sobbed openly, burrowing his face into Jaime’s chest. “I hate you, I changed my mind! I don’t want a brother!”

“I’ll get you another pony.” Jaime teased.

Tyrion screeched at the top of his lungs, so loudly that Jaime swore the sound echoed around Casterly Rock like a call to arms.

“Knights are called to protect the vulnerable. The oppressed. Those who need a champion.” Jaime said softly. “I have been your sworn sword for a long time, Tyrion. This changes nothing. My loyalty is still yours. I may not-- I may not fight well with my left, but when I do, or even now--”

“And when you marry?” Tyrion asked, teeth grit. “Will you forget me then?”

“Not for a moment.” Jaime promised. “She will love you as much as she loves me, or she will get no chance to love me at all.”

“Good.” Tyrion’s lower lip wobbled, but he stood strong, brows furrowed and hands on his hips. A child playing at being a man grown, just as Jaime saw himself. “Good. I like that.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jaime tweaked his nose. “You have always wanted more love than you can hold.”

“More is better than less.” Tyrion shrugged sadly. “To be left wanting is a terrible thing.”

“And have you?”

“Never by you.”

* * *

“Why do you enjoy hurting me so, Jaime?” Even Cersei’s whispers roared like Charybdis in his ear. Of the lions, she was the most brutal, the thirstiest for blood, so long as it was his. “Why are you always trying to upset me? Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?” She ran a hand through his hair and he pulled his head away, trapped by the strange magnetism of her presence. He had never been able to deny his sister. “Who will have you if not me, Jaime? Who will love you like I do? I’m your other half, Jaime. I’m your mirror. Why are you trying to leave me?”

The word no meant nothing to Cersei. It never had. Maybe it might have, if she’d ever heard it, but Tywin had made sure his daughter had gotten everything she’d asked for and more.

“I’m not trying to hurt you.” Jaime said flatly, taking a step back. His soul ached. He’d thought one conversation would be the end, that Cersei would finally be stopped by shame or self-consciousness or anything else human. Even boundaries didn’t seem to work, with her, no matter how cleanly he drew them. “I’m making the right choice for myself. You just won’t listen.”

“Won’t listen.” She pouted and Jaime wanted to throw up. “I have always listened to you. To the words of your heart, Jaime, because I know what’s right for you.” Her hand cupped his cheek and his skin burned under her touch. “I know what you need. I see who you are, I see the truth of you. Not what you want to believe.”

“You disgust me.” Jaime tore away from her touch again, hands out in front of him, arms bent at the elbows, ready to push her away if she came near him. “Stop, Cersei. While we can both still pretend at being friends.” That was far gone already, buried under the Red Keep, under the weight of all the memories Jaime was now forced to carry, memories with no twin in anyone else’s mind. “This is pathetic.”

“What will she give you that I can’t?” Cersei’s plaintive tone rooted deep within his chest, old regrets and fondness digging their way out of the dirt of his being like reanimated corpses. “How will she love you in ways that I can’t?” Her green eyes brimmed with tears, the exact color of the wildfire caches she’d hidden all throughout King’s Landing. He knew what Cersei was capable of, and that was exactly why he couldn’t love her. “Father says she is nothing, that she is a terrible match for you, but that you insisted upon it. Are you punishing yourself? For leaving me?”

“I am rewarding myself.” Jaime said. “For leaving you.”

Cersei’s hurt rang out like a bell, echoing between them. Once, he had believed they’d shared one mind, one heart, that what she wanted had been what he wanted as well. It had taken him decades to discover otherwise in his first life, decades and Brienne and throwing his heart away to do her bidding one last time to realize that Cersei was selfish. She didn’t have the same heart he did. She only wanted him to give and give and give until she was tired of taking.

“Rewarding yourself?” There was the anger, cold and fearsome. He’d been burnt alive by it many times before, but the weight of her disappointment had never hurt less than it did now. It settled onto his shoulders naturally, straightening his back. He could hold his head up with pride now. He hadn’t realized how deeply she’d ruined him. “All I wanted was for us to be together, Jaime, to be the best we could be together and now you’ve gone and--”

“Now I’ve found someone who will love me, not having a henchman. And if she does not love me, it will still be better than whatever you are pretending is love.” Jaime said softly. He had had enough of her poison poured into his ears, choking him from the inside. A lesser man would have killed her, spared himself the misery, but some part of Jaime still believed she could change, that she could be better. Maybe he was wrong, but he wouldn’t fault himself for having faith, even if that hopeful heart had been the reason for all Cersei had been able to do to him. “Good night, Cersei.”

* * *

Tyrion jumped up and down in order to get a better look at the delegation from the island of Tarth, as they came up the hill toward Casterly Rock’s main gate, to the point where Jaime, ignoring all limits of propriety, picked Tyrion up under the armpits like a baby and sat him on his shoulders.

“Better?” He asked, and Tyrion groused for a few seconds, whining about how Jaime never let him do anything himself, before getting lost in the sights and the sounds of a visit from another noble house. Tyrion had always loved the pageantry of it all in a way Jaime hadn’t, and Jaime would do anything to indulge his brother’s glee, to watch his whole face transform, his mismatched eyes bright in his face.

He set Tyrion down on the stone floor of the courtyard again, watching his brother sigh in delight as he saw the banners held high and rocked, unconsciously, to the rhythm of horse hooves slapping against flagstones. Jaime hugged Tyrion tight to his chest, a surge of fondness overtaking him, which earned another round of dissatisfied rumblings, and nearly lost his grip on Tyrion as Brienne came into view, her shirt the same shade of blue as her eyes, bearing the sun and moon of Tarth’s emblem. She was perfect -- still a few inches shy of her adult height, but still taller than Jaime, her hair longer than he’d ever seen it, brushing the tops of her broad shoulders.

She was beautiful, as she always had been, as she always would be to him.

Tyrion had to slap Jaime to close his jaw, hanging open so widely it could catch flies.

“That hurt.” Jaime complained, trapping Tyrion in a headlock.

“That’s for putting me on your horse.” Tyrion grabbed Jaime’s forearm with both of his hands, kicking backwards at him before deciding to give Jaime’s arm an impassioned chomp with his pointy little teeth.

Jaime tried to suppress a whimper of pain, but it reached Tywin, who turned to see both his sons red faced and glowering at each other, nonetheless.

“Do try not to embarrass me.” He said, every word condemning in the worst way, and Jaime threw an arm around Tyrion, an awful darkness brewing within him. He had only japed with Tyrion to feel better about the immeasurable task before him. Now he felt worse for seeking that small measure of happiness at all.

“Lord Selwyn of Tarth, these are my sons. The little one is Tyrion, and the older one is my heir, Ser Jaime Lannister.” Tywin swung down from his horse and motioned for Selwyn to follow him toward Jaime and Tyrion, placing his stiff, corpse-like hand at Jaime’s back. “Shake his hand, Jaime.” Tywin hissed, and Jaime held out his right hand mechanically.

Selwyn took it, his eyes burning holes through Jaime, who realized only then what a mess he must look like, hair mussed from tussling with Tyrion, swept this way and that by the wind, cheeks sunburn red. Instead, Lord Selwyn of Tarth smiled, with his eyes as well as his mouth.

“Ser Jaime Lannister.” Lord Selwyn’s face was deeply lined with age and laughter, his hair so pale that it hadn’t needed to pause at gray between white and blond, his eyes just as blue as the Narrow Sea. He had Brienne’s eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Lord Selwyn.” Jaime bowed, feeling rather stuffy and old as he did so. Selwyn laughed, and Jaime, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, wondered for the first time whether he was too young to be playing at men’s games.

“You’ve raised a polite young man, Lord Tywin.” Selwyn shook Jaime’s hand, warm and friendly, even though Jaime felt as if his arm might be wrenched clear of his shoulder at any moment. “He’s a good one.” He returned to Brienne, who had mounted the horse a servant had brought for her, eyes cold and hard like the North, like Winterfell itself. “This is my Brienne.”

Brienne smiled softly, a false display of kindness, her hands clutching the reins of her horse tight. Her smile was only more disarming at closer range and Jaime felt his heart leap into his throat with all the energy of a hunter seeking his prey, seconds from choking him. Brienne was here, in Casterly Rock, so she could get to know him.

The fact that he had been allowed a chance to be hers by the world had him bewildered, stunned, so much so that he could hardly speak anymore, his shambling tongue tripping at the worst of moments all morning.

Cersei had laughed, cruelly so, and Jaime had ignored it.

“Well met, Lady Brienne.” Tywin said, and Jaime just barely suppressed the instinct to gag. Tyrion, however, didn’t, letting out a sound halfway between a honk and a wheeze. “That, as I’m sure you’ve deduced, is your future good-brother Tyrion.”

“Hello!” Tyrion beamed, the image of the well behaved lordling he loved pretending to be when he had an audience. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Lady Brienne!”

“Well met, Lord Tyrion.” Brienne said and Tyrion just barely refrained from clapping his hands. Her eyes darted to Jaime, who sat stock still, as if frozen in place by her gaze. “Well met, Ser Jaime.”

He hardly knew how to reply, a thousand words ricocheting around his head at the speed of light, his vision fuzzy and his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

“Well met, Lady Brienne”, he managed, but just barely, and Tywin, seeing his fool son with one foot in the grave at the sight of a girl, luckily talked Selwyn into making for Casterly Rock while the light was still on their side.

“Not much of a talker, huh, Jaime?” Tyrion grinned up at him.

“Shut up, Tyrion.” Jaime grumbled.

If this was what was going to happen every time Brienne so much as looked at him, he’d die before he got a chance to say more than his name.

* * *

Jaime felt as stiff as a log sitting next to Brienne, his hands clasped tightly in his lap so he wouldn’t try anything stupid, like touching her shoulder, his hand cupping the joint tenderly, or reaching out for her hand, his mouth nearly watering at the thought of holding her hand again. Brienne, to her credit, seemed unperturbed, watching the dancers whirl about in their finery with a practiced, perfect indifference that nearly brought tears to Jaime’s eyes. He remembered how she’d looked, dancing with Renly, how alive her eyes had been, and cleared his throat softly.

“Lady Brienne?” He said, his voice shaking, his hands sweating profusely. He could ruin the whole betrothal here, by seeming too presumptuous, by offending Brienne. He knew little of Lord Selwyn of Tarth beyond the fact that he deferred completely to his daughter on matters of her heart, and this Brienne wasn’t the one he remembered, the one that would smile her soft, sweet smile if asked to dance.

“What?” She asked, sounding rather cross, and he stared down at his hands, the nails digging into his palms so deeply that red marks were beginning to form.

“Nothing.” He said, shaking his head. “It was nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have said anything.” Brienne countered. Even this early in her past, she was ready to take on any challenge, unwilling to stand down. He had always admired that courage, that poise, that confidence -- his big mouth got him into scrapes, but Brienne’s got her out of them.

A quality that had made her a knight of unparalleled skill and honor, in his first life, and if he had to say anything about it, would see her to that end again.

“I only thought…” Jaime took a deep breath. “Would you like to dance?” He tried his best to echo her confidence, to carry himself with the regal grace that came so easily to his sister, but found himself slouching even then, head ducked down like a dog being chastised by its owner. “Not because-- not because you’re a girl and some girls like that, it’s just because-- because--” He groaned softly, squeezing the bridge of his nose between a finger and a thumb. “I don’t know why I thought that. I’m sorry.”

“If you apologize for everything you say, it will be hard to get to know you.”

He frowned, looking up at her in confusion.

“If you apologize for what you say, I have to assume you didn’t mean to say it, or didn’t mean to say it quite like that.” Brienne said, as if it were common sense to not hold grudges against people you had just met. “Assuming that to be true, you haven’t said anything to me since we’ve met.”

“Anything?” Jaime said, appalled.

“Anything.” Brienne said, the hint of a smile on her face. “Most of my suitors tell me how I should feel. You spend your time telling me how you’re not feeling. An interesting tactic.”

“My father tells me I was raised in the woods, sometimes. Not an ounce of the manners he’d expect from a boy raised in court.” That earned a laugh from Brienne, a snorting, barking sound that caught the attention of more than a few nobles. “If you would like me to talk about how I feel, I’ll tell you this -- I was nervous to meet you. I didn’t know what you would be like.” He curled in on himself as comfortably as he could in his chair, feeling oddly overwhelmed. “But I like what I have seen so far. I would like to see more. Of who you are, not who others believe you to be.”

“When my father said the Lannisters wanted to meet me, I was worried.” Brienne said. “When my father said the betrothal was for you, I didn’t know what to think. Jaime Lannister, to be pledged to me?” She sighed, shaking her head. He wanted to kiss that disbelief off her lips, but that would come later. “You aren’t nearly as bad as I thought you’d be.”

“I’ll take it.” Jaime smiled. “‘Not bad’ is a lot better than I usually get.”

“And what do you usually get?”

“Yelled at.”

Brienne laughed again, hands pressed over her mouth, and Jaime winked at her smugly, earning another round of choked off chuckles. So all he had to do to win her over was to stay calm -- to be himself, just as he’d been in the baths at Harrenhal, just as he’d been at Winterfell.

Once again, Jaime Lannister had set himself an impossible task.

“Is it really so hard for you to talk?” Brienne asked, eyes sparkling with mirth. “You seem to be fine when you do, but until then, you struggle.”

“I only ever speak to my siblings.” Jaime said, worried he was being far too vulnerable, but Brienne nodded knowingly, laughter melting into sad resignation. “So I don’t have much experience with-- with-- you know. People who aren’t related to me.” He grimaced. “I want to put my best foot forward. You deserve that.”

“I spend most of my time with my father.” Brienne smiled sadly. “I know that feeling well.” She played idly with one of the knives by their place settings. She looked dangerous. Jaime’s heart sang. “What is it like?”

“Sorry?”

“There it is again.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. What were you asking?”

“What is it like to have siblings?”

“It’s an experience of its own. Very unique.” Jaime said honestly. The expression on his face must have been telling, because Brienne laughed again. “My brother and I are really close. We do everything together. I take Tyrion everywhere I go, whenever I can, so he gets to see everything and he likes me well enough because of it. Tyrion loves a good game, so he’ll toy with you a bit, but only to make sure he’s safe around you. He worries about how others will think of him.” He looked over to check on Tyrion, who was repeatedly stabbing a fork into a large chunk of carrot. “Evidently not right now, but usually.”

“And you have a sister as well, correct?”

“I do.” Jaime said quietly, glancing over at Cersei, who seemed enraged by the fact that she had to sit by Tyrion, who was doing more and more outrageous things to try and provoke a response. Now he was standing on his chair, grinning madly at Jaime as he sang along with the bards. He nodded his approval and Tyrion only sang (or, rather, screamed) louder.

“And are you close?”

“We used to be.” Jaime said. He caught Cersei’s eye and she glared at him. “She likes things to go her way. She wants things to go her way all the time. But she doesn’t see it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We’re twins. We know each other like no one else does. She just doesn’t like that I’m not just like her.” He laughed nervously. “Sorry. We barely know each other, like you said. This is far too much for our first conversation.”

Brienne, to his surprise, actually looked satisfied.

“I think I pushed too far by asking.” She said. “If anything, it’s my fault.”

“I think it was worth saying, if we are to get to know each other better.” Jaime frowned. “I think it’s worth knowing, for you.” He took a deep breath.

If he was truly to commit to freezing Cersei out, to rebuffing every one of her efforts at pulling him back into her orbit, at keeping him in her thrall, he would have to tell others of his decision to keep clear of her. The only way to make sure he stayed out of her path of destruction was to make sure his friends dragged him out of the way when he unwittingly strayed too close.

“So she dislikes you.” Brienne’s face twisted, eyes boring into Jaime like icicles. He felt the same rush of warmth that he always did, when she focused all her electric intensity upon him, the laser focus of her attention stealing the breath from his lungs. “I don’t see why she would. We’ve only met once and I like you well enough. And she’s known you your whole life.” The admission that she liked him, that she found him to be, at the very least, a tolerable conversation partner, had him grinning like a fool. “What happened?”

“I told her I wanted to marry.” Jaime said, still awestruck by Brienne, solid and familiar and here, with him. Here, on purpose. Here, and giving him a chance. “And then I told her I wanted to marry you.” He hoped whatever laughable shape his features had arranged themselves into spoke truly of how much he loved her, how beautiful she was to him, how kindly she had treated him despite having no reason to do so beyond the safekeeping of her father’s reputation. “And she felt threatened. She doesn’t want anyone to be more important to me than her.” He grimaced, breaking eye contact to stare at his hands again. “She likes control. She likes to control me. She always has. I am trying to find my way outside of it, for once, rather than splashing around inside it like a cat in a bath.”

Brienne laughed again here, the somber subject and her humor at war, and Jaime laughed along with her.

“I’m sorry, the image-- the cat--” Tears ran from her eyes and she hastily wiped them away. “Your humor has remained intact through the trials your sister has set you, at least.” She reached out carefully, placing her hand over Jaime’s. “She’s looking at us. She seems angry.”

“Lean closer.” Jaime whispered. “She’ll hate that.”

And Brienne did, hovering just at the edge of propriety, and Jaime spotted Cersei out of the corner of his eye, burning with indignant rage.

“Thank you.” He said. “I think I’ll like spending the rest of my life with you.”

“We’ve only met once.” Brienne said, though the words held no meaning, after the secrets that had passed between them. “Easy, Jaime.”

He felt the breath ripped from his lungs again at her words.

“Yes.” He said, when he remembered how to speak again. “This will be easy.”

* * *

When Jaime approached his secret corner, wooden sword heavy in his right hand, he heard the rhythmic thwack of wood against wood already. Had Tyrion decided to become a knight, all of a sudden?

But when he turned the corner to see Brienne, drenched in sweat and hacking away at a log with unbridled ferocity, Jaime felt an electric shock fire through his veins like an arrow loosed from a bow. He watched her in stunned silence for a moment, so consumed by the heady nostalgia of Brienne training as he watched, that he hardly noticed when she threw her sword at him. He reached out with his left hand to block it unconsciously, and when he picked it up, again with his left, her confusion was understandable.

The Lion of Lannister was right handed. She had heard the snippets of news that Tywin allowed out of the Westerlands as well as anyone else, had probably seen him fight at tourneys before. No one forgot details like that, but Brienne, lovely Brienne, let it slide, though he could see in her eyes that she was merely saving her questions for later.

“You have good form.” Jaime said, with a roguish smile. He tossed the sword back to her so it spun end over end, and she caught it at the point. Were the sword metal, her hand would have been severely bloodied, at the very least. “You fight well.”

“I know.” She said, stone faced. She was used to defending herself from men who acted as if they meant well but only sought to undermine her -- she’d told Jaime herself, in another life, that she didn’t care for any man’s approval but her father’s. “The Lion of Lannister condescends to--”

“I don’t see any Lion of Lannister.” Jaime shrugged. “I see Brienne and a boy who is interested in finding out where she learned to fight.”

“Our master-at-arms. My father.” Brienne said curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have training to attend to.”

“Do you mind? If I join?” Jaime blurted out. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the privilege of someone to spar with.”

“A long time.” Brienne said thoughtfully, then grabbed another wooden sword from the barrel in the corner and tossed it to Jaime. An invitation. He caught it with his left hand again, not wanting his right to fail in front of her. “I assure you, you don’t have to limit yourself for me. I can lose with dignity.”

“I am trying something new.” Jaime said, because it was easier than admitting the truth. “If I lose, you win knowing I chose to handicap myself against a better warrior. If I win, you’re free to tell everyone that the Lion of Lannister has made progress in hiding, these last few months.” He shrugged. “You don’t lose. Either way, you make yourself a friend.”

“I thought you were to be my husband.” Brienne challenged.

“I can be both.” Jaime said, settling into a fighting stance. “If you can be both to me, I can be both to you. You make it seem easy.”

She charged at him like a lion might, eyes flickering with determination and rage, unafraid to use her height and size as the advantage they were, and Jaime parried her thrusts with ease. The true danger would be when Brienne had thrown enough strikes to figure his fighting style out -- she seemed like the type to see each battle as an experiment, a microcosm of revelations about her opponent’s personality. And Jaime knew he was an open book, that he fought with his heart on his sleeve, visible for everyone to see. His heart was Brienne’s already, this new Brienne with stars in her eyes and courage beyond compare.

He would lose to her gladly.

“It is nice to know my future wife can fight. That she can defend herself.” Jaime grit out, landing a strike on Brienne’s shoulder. She seemed not to feel it at all. “I trust you more for it. Every woman should know how to wield a sword.” She whacked him in the chest and he laughed, wondering if it would bruise. “Was that for what I said? Or because I left my right side open?”

“Because you left your right side open.” Brienne said, a flush rising on her face.

It seemed the fight was over, as they took a moment to catch their breaths, but sooner than not, Brienne was raining blows upon him again. Jaime stumbled back, blocking a rather vicious blow with his right arm, and fell onto his back, scrambling up onto his knees, prepared to fend off her assault again, but instead, found the point of her wooden sword resting against the side of his neck, the pinprick of the few splinters on the edge focusing his thoughts.

She loomed above him like a giant, a statue, a monument to her own skill and bravery, and he felt uniquely at peace, knowing that, in the worst of cases, she could defend herself from him. No man was safe to Brienne, or had been, in any case, and this was something she needed.

He bowed his head, as if in prayer.

“I concede.” He said, and her sword slipped off his shoulder, like water sliding off silk. He looked up at her, smiling. “You’re amazing, Brienne.”

“I don’t accept flattery.” She said, though she looked pleased with herself. “I want to be a knight someday. Like you.”

“Better than me. You’ve proven it.” Was it right to feel proud of her already, so far on her journey toward her goals? She wasn’t his, had never been his in this world, but he was as proud of her as a husband could be of his wife. “You’ll be a knight, Brienne, the best knight the world has ever seen.”

“And you?” She asked. “Will you look for a real lady to bear your children? To be your love?”

“If I am so lucky as to be a knight’s husband, Ser Brienne, I will love every moment of it.” Jaime didn’t rise from his knees, looking up at her like she had made the universe for him alone, crafted each detail with her hands. “If I am so lucky as to be your husband, I will love it even more.”

“You’re a man of many words, Ser Jaime.” Brienne said softly, and he rose from the floor as if summoned. She took a step closer, examining him as if she could see every crack in the facade of capability he wore, like he was pinned beneath her gaze, defenseless. “You are lucky your words are what I wanted to hear. Otherwise you could find yourself in trouble.” She smiled now, mischievous. “Many women don’t take such declarations lightly.”

“You are the only knight for me.” Jaime said. “I meant every word I said.”

* * *

One of the smaller dining rooms had been prepared for the occasion of a private meal, and Jaime had helped Tyrion dress in his finest clothing in the absence of a servant, claiming to want to spend more time with his brother. In reality, Tyrion did most of the work, Jaime’s bad hand shaking too hard to help him with his buttons, the whisper of cloth against his burning fingers far too much for Jaime to process.

“Are you well, brother?” Tyrion asked quietly, eyes as large as moons, and Jaime ignored the fire in his hand when he pulled Tyrion close, carding a hand through his curls. He felt like he could breathe again when his brother was close enough to hold, and it helped that Tyrion was jubilant as always at the promise of contact, his arms around Jaime helping more than any maester’s remedy would. “I can tell Father if you’re not. We can postpone it.”

Jaime shook his head. It was best to get this over with. He didn’t know why the prospect of a formal dinner bothered him so -- perhaps it was the pain in his hand, perhaps it was the words he had said to Brienne so casually the night before. How could he act as if nothing had changed, after what had passed between them last night, his promise to be her knight as she would be his? How could he look Lord Selwyn in the eye, knowing what he knew Brienne had said to him, knowing what he had said to her under the cover of night?

“You look like you’ll drop dead at the dinner table, Jaime.” Tyrion said.

“Good.” Jaime grunted. “Father will have something to talk about.”

Tyrion guffawed, then scrambled up on the bed to redo the laces of Jaime’s tunic, which he had apparently been inordinately sloppy with. Tyrion had always had keen eyes and keener fingers, nimble and talented at work like this. Jaime had joked that he should take up needlepoint far too many times and had ended up with needles poking out of places where needles should not be for his troubles.

Tyrion’s height was an awful disadvantage for everyone else, sometimes.

“Not that he’ll be quiet for any reason.” Tyrion grumbled, hopping down off the bed while grimacing.

“You’ll break your knees like that.” Jaime cautioned, and received only a rude gesture for his troubles.

“Please, Jaime, leave the parenting to our real father.” Tyrion stomped ahead down the hallway to prove his point, and Jaime threw up his hands in exasperation before jogging to catch up, his right arm held tight against his body to avoid jarring his hand with every step. It ached still, despite his best efforts, each movement of his fingers intolerable, a thousand needles spearing every inch of skin.

And he still needed to eat, after this.

The Lion of Lannister is right handed, he reminded himself, and followed Tyrion through the double doors into the ornately decorated dining room, the central piece a long wooden table with six chairs arrayed around it. Tywin and Selwyn occupied the chairs at either end of the table, looking to be in as good spirits as any man could be, and Cersei and Brienne had chosen to sit on opposite ends of the table from each other, leaving an empty seat apiece beside each of them.

“You owe me for this.” Tyrion whispered, before racing to Cersei’s side. “Cersei! Can I sit with you?”

He fixed Jaime with a threatening look and Jaime all but ran, nearly tripping over himself, to sit beside Brienne, shooting her a hapless smile as he nearly crumpled into his chair. He flexed his right hand a few times, just to get his bearings on the pain level, which hadn’t improved any, and picked up the knife by his plate with great trepidation. He needed all his fingers, and he didn’t trust that his right hand might not slip at an inconvenient moment, leaving him not only functionally one handed, but with four fingers to boot.

“Is your hand alright?” Brienne whispered, just loudly enough for Jaime to hear, and he nodded in response, not emphatically enough to draw anyone but Cersei’s attention, and even then, that was only because Cersei was convinced they were conspiring against her.

He slid his chair closer to Brienne’s, glancing innocently at Selwyn, who laughed like he’d just heard the best joke in his life, as he did so, and Cersei hissed, Tywin glaring at her until Jaime was sure she would burst into flame. Brienne laughed, none of her unrestrained joy from the night before, but a softer, nicer sound that she’d obviously practiced for court.

He hated it.

“I injured it some time ago.” Jaime whispered back, thinking of the Bloody Mummers and their blades, of Brienne’s screaming. But she was here and simply concerned for his safety, and there were no villains about, thirsting for her blood. There was no use in hiding his weaknesses from her. “The maesters are doing their best with it, but it bothers me sometimes.”

“Do you need help? With your knife?”

He looked at her in a new light, then. Brienne, who knew what it was to be different in a painfully obvious way, who had been compensating for differences from expectations all her life. He had always recognized that she had learned the ways of moving through the world with a target on your back long before he had, but it had taken him far too long to recognize that her kindness, her willingness to teach and learn, had all extended to him as well. It seemed it was a quality that all Brienne’s had in droves.

“I can do it myself.” He insisted, but his hand betrayed him, his fingers seizing up awkwardly.

She fixed him with a glare.

“Fine.” He sighed. “Cersei will hate it.”

Brienne smiled. “Good.”

She took his knife from him, coaxing his fingers apart carefully before setting in on the meat on his plate, taking several searching looks at his mouth before beginning to cut it up. Across the table, Tyrion wheezed with laughter while Cersei glared at Jaime, looking like she wanted to tear him apart with her bare hands.

“My son is a man grown, Lady Brienne.” Tywin said. “He can feed himself.”

“Forgive me, Lord Tywin, but I’ve seen him with a sword.” Brienne said, before she remembered who she was speaking to. She looked to Jaime first, a guilty expression on her face, but he shrugged, smiling.

“And so Lady Brienne has decided I am not in charge of small knives as well as large ones.” Jaime said, the performance of gallantry coming easily to him as always. “More’s the pity for me, if there are to be so many rules in our house.”

He was able to marshal his hand into obeying the simple instruction of carrying food to his mouth more often than not, and the few times he spilled food on himself, Brienne passed him a napkin wordlessly, without even looking in his direction, as if the hitch in his breath were enough signal to her that he needed her. She was a miracle among women, among people at all, and if she ever called upon him to protect her in the same way, he would give all he had in her service.

Cersei glowered at them both and Jaime knew some retort was brewing in her heart, something nasty and sharp edged, something that would have made him bleed himself dry at her feet so recently it hurt to think about. The same sort of retort that had trapped him under the rubble with her at King’s Landing. But with Brienne at his side, with that conspirator’s smile, Cersei could do her worst and Jaime would still be wildly, deliriously happy.

Perhaps he was the stupidest Lannister, but he had found one thing his sister had not: true happiness.

He looked toward Lord Selwyn to find the man considering him with his hawk eyes, not like prey, not like a threat, but as a welcome surprise. His smile spread wider once he noticed Jaime, looking like he’d been caught stealing from the kitchens, and Jaime smiled back. His future father-in-law approved, then, of him letting Brienne carry as much weight as he did in this relationship, even if his father did not. Tywin looked incandescent with rage, just short of Cersei’s blind fury, and Jaime knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it, once this dinner was over. If he escaped with his head, he would be lucky.

But for now there was Brienne, marking every thing he did with her presence, every sly glance his way a revelation, and Jaime was content.

* * *

“Come on!” Jaime whispered, before taking the stairs two at a time up to his favorite balcony. The night air was cold against his face and the stars shone bright overhead, like little pinprick holes punched in the fabric of the sky. He looked back over his shoulder to see Brienne in the doorway, awestruck at the sheer expanse of visible sky. “Come on, Brienne, there’s a sky on Tarth too. You’ll catch flies with that mouth.”

“This same sky.” Brienne said, venturing out onto the balcony carefully. “Oh shut up, the constellations are different here.”

“The who?”

“The patterns the stars make.” Brienne frowned. “Honestly, do they teach you anything here?”

“I made it my life’s mission to learn very little.” Jaime winked, and she barked out a laugh. “I’ve never liked books. Cersei told me what I needed to know and I parroted it back to the maesters like a good little boy. And then I became a knight.”

“You became a knight so you wouldn’t have to read.”

“Sounds entirely reasonable.” Jaime shrugged. “Why else would one want to become a knight?”

“Honor? Duty?” Brienne was wide eyed and indignant and Jaime found, as he had in the last life they were together, that he liked her best that way. “The desire to serve others?”

“Fine, maybe others have purer motives. I didn’t want to read.”

“You’re despicable.” Brienne said, hiccuping her way through avoiding a laugh.

“Why did you want to become a knight?” He asked. “Were there many on Tarth?”

“None.” Brienne said. “I want to be the first.”

Jaime nodded slowly, smiling. “And so you will be.”

“And you?” She asked. “Was it really so simple as not wanting to read?”

“I read one thing.” Jaime admitted. “It was enough for me.”

“What was it?”

“Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning.” He blushed. “I read of his exploits. He’s-- He is the best knight in Westeros, the strongest, the bravest. He deserves the Kingsguard.” He tugged at the end of his sleeve. “He knighted me. He’s the one who asked me if I wanted to join. King Aerys sent the order, but Ser Arthur asked me if I wanted it.”

“And did you?” Brienne seemed to be hanging on his words. She knew just as well as he did that if he was seeking a wife, he’d turned down the Kingsguard in favor of ruling the Rock once his father saw fit to give it over to him. To join the Kingsguard was to forswear your titles, land, and family for life.

Not many could make the commitment.

Jaime had almost done it, but had remembered himself just in time.

“Yes.” He answered truthfully. “I wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard. I wanted the white cloak, the armor, the fame.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on his knee, ignoring how they skipped and slid. “But I wanted my family more. I wanted to watch my brother grow up. I wanted to make the Rock a better place, when my father grew too old to hold it himself. I wanted a family of my own. And all of these things together meant more to me than King Aerys ever could.” He cast a shy glance at Brienne, to judge her reception of his answer, and was surprised to find nothing but understanding in her eyes. “Did I answer well?”

“You answered correctly.” Brienne smiled. “Was the Smiling Knight as scary as they said?”

“Every bit and then some.” Jaime laughed. “I thought I might die when he crossed swords with me, and again when Ser Arthur knighted me right then and there.”

She reached out for him, like friends might, and shook his shoulder companionably. His heart glowed within his chest.

“I am glad I didn’t. I wouldn’t have met you, if I had.” The deaths he had suffered in her name still stung, but they were healing over in her presence, new, raw skin forming over old burns. “Acts of valor are beautiful in the moment. And sometimes that beauty becomes a song. Sometimes, that song captures the hearts of the smallfolk. And sometimes, the knight in the song becomes a legend for it. But most times that’s not true. Most times, the knight grows old before his time from fighting and dies alone and afraid. I-- I have had enough of being afraid.”

“Would you say that I have not?” Brienne asked, curiosity shining like starlight in her blue eyes. “I seek a knighthood the same way you once did. The first female knight in Westeros would have songs written about her for merely existing. I will be afraid. I have been. I am afraid still, now. Are you ready for that?” She looked at him, the curiosity softened by what he hoped was fondness. “Can you stand with me while my dreams come to life?”

“Yes. A thousand times yes.” I have died for your dreams, he wanted to say. I would do it again, if you asked. I would love nothing more than to see you respected in the way you have always deserved. Instead, he held his tongue, a prodigious effort that often didn’t succeed, but did now, in the moment where it mattered most. “I will sing the songs to you and any children we may have, so that they know how brave their mother is. So you know how brave you are.”

“And if they are bad songs?”

“I will pay off all the bards in the world and hunt down the ones that don’t take coin.” He smirked. “I should get some use out of my knighthood as well. If my lady defends our honor all the time, I might fall out of practice.”

“Quite right.” Brienne nodded seriously, like they would be allowed to chase down and fight anyone who ever insulted them. “We’ll split it evenly.”

“Anyone who says a word against you will know the Lion of Lannister.” Jaime promised. “And those who don’t will simply have Ser Brienne of Tarth’s husband to deal with. Privately, I think the second man is to be more feared than the first.”

“You say husband as if I am yours.”

“I say husband as if I am yours.”

Brienne looked upon him with pride, eyes stormy like the seas Jaime had watched from his perch on the craggy rocks he and his siblings had climbed, crowning their peaks with Lannister colors like they were conquering new lands. This didn’t feel like a conquest, a battle, a prize waiting to be won -- this felt like surrender, in the best way, giving himself over to Brienne the way he should have in his first life.

She had always known what was best for him.

“You are that confident.” She said softly. “You want to marry me.”

“I do.” Jaime said, that first return to Winterfell rushing toward him. He reached out for her hand, which she allowed him to hold gently, and raised it to his lips. “From this day until the end of my days.”

* * *

The betrothal, and the feast that followed, passed in a blur -- Jaime had been wholly possessed by the fear that she might say no through to the very last moment, which Brienne had found laughable. She looked regretful though, when she laughed, as if she could not imagine the thought of anyone saying yes to her, and Jaime’s heart had shattered to pieces at the thought.

He would punch Ronnet Connington a thousand times, if he could, and then a thousand more for good measure, would break the bones of every man who had dared to even look at Brienne the wrong way, but he knew that was not what she wanted -- not from her husband, not from her betrothed, not from any man who truly loved her at all. She could fight her own battles -- he’d seen that firsthand, so many times, as they journeyed through the Riverlands then in King’s Landing, and in a host of other places made unremarkable by her splendour, her skill.

She wanted a man who would support her as she fought her own battles, who would stand proudly at her side while she doomed her critics to ruin, and Jaime would gladly play the part -- the one good thing Cersei had said about him was that he was a good actor. He knew his way around giving people what they wanted, but with Brienne, for the first time, he felt that what he wanted and what she wanted were one and the same. He denied no part of himself to be what she wanted, what she saw in him, and he felt made anew in his joy because of it, as spotless and innocent as his betrothed, as capable of honor and love as she.

“You could have anyone.” Cersei hissed in his ear, as he watched Brienne stumble around with Selwyn, both of them gladly calling whatever they were doing “dancing”. “And you chose her? That disgusting cow?” She sneered. “You could do so much better, brother. You could have had anyone.” She pressed closer to him, a parody of sisterly affection that had him ready to retch. “You could have married for beauty, for riches, and instead you chose an ugly girl from a nothing island?”

“I will marry for love.” Jaime said simply, shaking Cersei off. Beside him, Tyrion shrieked in glee. “And I chose her. Never forget it.”

* * *

“You are leaving in a matter of days.” Jaime’s voice wavered, and Brienne leaned in close, her hand a soft, insistent pressure at the side of his neck. His pulse raced beneath her palm. Could she feel it? “I don’t know if I can bear it.” He heaved a deep breath into his lungs, eyes burning with the promise of tears. She brought out such emotion in him, his heart spilling over into his entire body until it rattled with the force of it. “You’ve been good to me. I-- I don’t know if I can do without it.”

“Oh, you can.” Brienne said with confidence, always brimming with belief in him. “We will see each other on Tarth soon enough, if my father has any say in the matter.” She seemed amazed by the effect she had on him, and he wanted to tell her it would only grow deeper with time, the hold she had on his heart, on his soul. That this was just the beginning of something greater, this bone deep ache at the thought of her too far away to see. How had he managed without her for so long? “And then your heart will be at rest, Jaime.”

“I should like to see your home.” He said softly, the words old and familiar.

He could almost see the green spires of Tarth’s grassy mountains rising from the rocky ground, the white beaches Brienne had described playing upon as a child, could almost taste the salt of the air. Even before she left, he was already missing her, already dying for a future in which the sight of her had long ago become commonplace. “It must be a beautiful place. Made beautiful by you.”

“By me?” She asked, face turning red in blotches.

“By your face, your hand, and your sword.” Jaime said. “I cannot imagine a more lucky place, to have you in it all the time.”

“Then you should come see it.” Brienne said, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “You should come see me.”

“I will.” Jaime promised. His heart soared at the thought of Brienne in his arms again. The next time his father went to King’s Landing, he’d lobby to go with him, simply because Tarth was a boat away from the port and Jaime, as the future Lord of the Rock, was not wanting for coin. “I-- I cannot wait to be married. When I can see you whenever I would like. When schedules mean naught.”

“Schedules will always have meaning.” Brienne said, a fond look in her eyes. “Though less, when you are with me. You have a talent for distracting others.”

Jaime beamed. “So I do. I train it as diligently as I do my sword hand.”

“My knighthood will not distract you from your work then, as Lord of the Rock. You will do it yourself.” Brienne laughed. “What do you need a wife for, Jaime? You seem to have everything in order.”

“For love.” Jaime said, so earnestly that Brienne startled like a spooked horse. “For your love.”

“For my love.” Brienne repeated, eyes glassy. “And how do I know you mean it truly?”

“I will prove it. On Tarth, here at the Rock, for the rest of our lives together. Where-- where other men have failed you, I swear on my life I will not.” Jaime took her other hand, warm and calloused and alive in his. He didn’t know what he would do if they were discovered. This felt more intimate than a kiss, something more than their beautiful night at Winterfell. This was more, this was better, and he wanted it for every second of every day of the rest of their lives.

“As a knight, you’re in need of a damsel in distress, and I am in plenty of distress at the thought of being without you.” Jaime said. “Perhaps that will be your first ballad.”

“Our first ballad.” She smiled, the hand at his neck flexing and relaxing as her fingers stroked up and down the nape of his neck. “I have much to thank you for, Jaime. You have been… you have been wonderful. Without comparison.”

“And I will be, for as long as you’ll have me.” Jaime said eagerly. “I do not wish to hurt you. Ever. If I can say I haven’t, at the end of my days, then I will die a happy man.”

“Maybe it was a good thing you became a knight.” Brienne smirked. “Had you become a bard, there would be no chance of a marriage between us.”

“I would be infinitely more dangerous, had I learned how to read.” Jaime agreed. “The Seven knew better.”

“I have much to thank The Seven for, then.” She smiled.

“As do I.” Jaime said, the ache of anticipating her departure softening slightly, like butter in the sun, a puddle of bubbling warmth in his chest. He thought of the Stranger, the only reason he was here at all, and promised himself he would leave gifts at his altar. He had everything he’d ever wanted now, a bright future, Brienne, Tyrion’s happiness.

There was much to be thankful for, even if she was leaving him here.

* * *

“Ser Jaime.” Lord Selwyn of Tarth was packing up the room he’d stayed in, and Jaime, on his way to see Brienne, had paused in his open doorway for a split second. “Come in, I wish to speak to you before we leave.”

The mere mention of their imminent departure had sent Jaime’s insides twisting and turning for days. He had felt so uniquely happy during their time on Casterly Rock, every moment painted in bright, bold colors, every sound a symphony. Casterly Rock had felt like a place where love could live, a place in which children could thrive, a place in which a family could exist. Having seen how Brienne and Lord Selwyn carried on even in public, Jaime could hardly call his siblings and father a family -- for the most part, they seemed to be four people who occasionally shared a living space and cared for, at most, one among the other three.

How could he go back to the dull grays and static of the keep he’d grown up in, once they’d left? How could he resign himself to the riptide of barely disguised hatred and resentment that they all boiled in here at the Rock knowing there was better out there? That there was love out there? That there was Brienne and her father, and affection in their hearts for him, undeserving and overwhelming brat though he was, despite his personality, despite his misgivings?

“Of course.” Jaime said softly, hovering just inside the doorway like the little ghost Tywin had always preferred him to be, like Cersei had always preferred him to be. Seen but not heard, an instrument of their bidding. The hand that swung the sword where it was told. At the reminder, his right hand itched, as if offended by the suggestion that it defined him.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Selwyn shut his trunk, then pushed against the lid like it might pop open, to test the integrity of the lock. “You have been well behaved and extraordinarily kind to my daughter, in the time we’ve visited your home. I appreciate that. Brienne is dear to my heart, and I hope she will be dear to yours, though I’ve heard that may be already in the works.” Selwyn smiled, a bright flash of teeth that made his eyes nearly disappear. “I had always hoped she would find love with a deserving young man. Guard her heart carefully, Ser Jaime. She trusts you already. A rarity, with my Brienne.”

“I will.” Jaime said, eager to prove his worth, to prove his willingness to be something more than the suitors Brienne had had before. More than Hyle Hunt, who she would never meet if he had anything to say about it, more than Red Ronnet Connington, who’d thrown a rose at her feet like a consolation prize. “I want to be good for her. I know-- I know marriages are not always for love, but--” He found himself shy, all of a sudden, as if he’d realized he was talking to the father of his betrothed all over again, and not his own father. “I want this one to be.”

“A noble goal.” Selwyn sat on the end of his bed. “Come sit beside me. You don’t have to be nearly so formal with me as your father demands. I will be your father too, someday.”

The words knocked something loose in Jaime’s chest, something that rattled around between his ribs, demanding his attention. And yet Selwyn spoke them so casually? Like being Jaime’s father, Jaime’s anything, would be so easy, would be worth the effort at all? Tywin had never bothered with being Jaime’s father, in the ways that counted, and he’d been responsible for his birth -- being the Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands had taken precedence over all of his children. It hadn’t been a stiff competition for either of the boys. Cersei, at least, had stood a chance, but, in Tywin’s eyes, neither Jaime nor Tyrion had been worth the cradles they slept in.

And Selwyn hardly knew him at all, and here he was, claiming Jaime was worth calling “son” someday.

Wordlessly, Jaime sat on the very corner of the bed, his legs holding him up more so than the mattress.

Selwyn laughed, placing a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, and Jaime nearly jumped right out of his skin. “No need to look so scared. I am unarmed. We would be honored to host you on Tarth, should you like to visit. It will be your home someday just as it is Brienne’s, if you win her heart, and I want it to feel that way. My daughter tells me you like beaches and exploring caves. We have plenty of those on Tarth. Feel free to bring your brother along -- she seems fond of little Tyrion as well.”

“I--”

He couldn’t overstate how unexpected the offer had been. It was customary, yes, for betrothed to visit each other’s homes before marriage, but to offer it so quickly was unheard of. Did Selwyn mean for him and Brienne to marry within months?

“It would be my honor.” He said, trying to sound strong despite the shake in his voice, the harsh, wet sound in his stuffed up nose as he tried to regulate his breathing. “I would like nothing more.”

“Brienne is just as upset about leaving you, if it helps at all.” Selwyn said softly, and Jaime looked up at him in awe. The man’s face swam in the film of tears that choked Jaime’s vision, but he looked proud. “You will make a good husband and she a good wife. I need to know, before I let this proceed -- will you give her what she wants? If she wants… a different life than a lady should lead, will you let her lead it proudly?”

“She wants to be a knight.” Jaime said with a laugh, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic. “And I want her to be a knight, more than I ever wanted it for myself.”

“More than you ever wanted it for yourself.” Selwyn smiled again, ruffling Jaime’s hair like he might have ruffled Galladon’s many years before. “You’re a good man, Jaime Lannister. And my daughter is lucky to have you as her own.”

He spoke as if Jaime and Brienne were already wed, that she was just returning home for a time before coming back to her husband. Jaime’s heart swelled larger and larger in his chest at the thought of Brienne with him, Brienne making the Rock somewhere they could be happy, and then it broke like a dam when he remembered she was leaving, the tears pouring out of him in waves.

“There, there.” Selwyn said softly. “It is the nature of love to be unbearably painful. And you will see each other again soon enough.”

He rubbed up and down Jaime’s right arm, like he was comforting his own child, and Jaime was possessed wholly by the desire to sit closer to him, to see if an embrace was coming. But Jaime was a Lannister, proud to the bone, and kept his shaking legs strong, his perch on the very end of the corner of the bed enough for him.

He would not show such weakness again.

“Yes.” Jaime nodded, sniffling. “Yes, we will. We must.”

* * *

“My lady”, Jaime said, helping Brienne up into the ugly wheelhouse that Cersei always rode in on the way to King’s Landing. As the Evenstar and his daughter were headed that way as well, Cersei had asked Brienne to sit with her, so that she might get to know her beloved twin’s beloved. She had used those exact words and every hair on Jaime’s body had stood on end, his breath freezing in his lungs. “Mind your step.”

“Ser Jaime, you shouldn’t have.” Brienne’s cheeks were blotchy and tomato red. She didn’t want his help, but she understood, at least, why he gave it. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

“As do I.” Jaime’s mouth was dry. He wanted to hold her hand, to warn her about Cersei, but too many Lannisters were watching for him to be honest about anything in his heart. “There are some on this journey that may not wish you well. I ask that you guard your own heart as carefully as you have guarded mine.” Brienne smiled for a second before glancing back at her father and Tywin, who were locked deep in a conversation, heads together as they whispered back and forth. “It wouldn’t do, for my betrothed to be upset in any way.”

“I have encountered plenty of people who wish me ill, Ser Jaime. I do not need instructions on how to suffer their whims.” Brienne looked amused, if anything, and Jaime laughed nervously. “But I will be careful, for your sake as well as mine.”

“Are you so scared of Brienne speaking to me, brother?” Cersei called, from inside the wheelhouse. She hadn’t said a word to him all morning, so he nearly jumped a foot in the air when he heard her voice. “She and I will be sisters soon. We should know each other just as well as you know me.”

Jaime winced, glad she couldn’t see him.

“I can hold my own, Jaime.” Brienne said softly. “You do not need to fear for me.”

“We are betrothed.” Jaime said, as if that was reason enough. “I will fear for you when I like.”

Her hand came up to his shoulder, floating by the side of his neck, and it twitched as though she wanted to run her hand through his hair. Like she had during the nights they’d spent up on the balcony, naming the stars however they pleased.

“And I for you.” Brienne said. “I will write you from home.”

“I will eagerly await your letter.” Jaime reluctantly let go of her hand and Brienne looked over her shoulder sadly at him before disappearing into the wheelhouse. The door was shut quickly by a familiar, pale hand. Cersei shutting him out of his own life again.

Jaime waited there for a second, mouth hanging open so wide it might catch flies. Fear rose in him anew. Would Brienne be safe in Cersei’s clutches? He ambled over to Tyrion, head hung and hands clasped in front of him like he was in mourning, hoping he looked the least bit casual. He supposed he was mourning; whatever Brienne might hear about him on the ride to King’s Landing, might cause her to despise him too much to write him like she’d promised. He stood, shaking visibly, next to Tyrion, watching the riders disappear down the hill toward the Goldroad that lead to King’s Landing, and Tyrion reached out for his hand, gripping it so tightly that Jaime thought his nails might draw blood.

“She rides well enough.” Tyrion said, a vain attempt to stave off the rush of tears flooding Jaime’s eyes. Jaime would’ve sworn up and down at that moment that the heavy, cold hand of sadness squeezing his throat like a vice was made of gold. “Maybe she will run away from Cersei.”

“There’s no running away from Cersei.” Jaime said hoarsely. “There’s only distance -- as much of it as you can give yourself.”

* * *

Jaime turned Tyrion away nearly every time he came to play, in the sennight after Lord Selwyn and Brienne’s departure. Tyrion was little more than a child and was justly frustrated, banging on Jaime’s door and screaming at the top of his lungs like a little tyrant wronged by his brother’s need for solitude. Sometimes Jaime forgot that he was the only one that had truly loved Tyrion, that without him, his brother was lost. On those days he slept as if each hour was a second in an unblinking eternity.

What would he gain from being awake? More time practicing drills that would never work? Playing at the horrors of battle with a hand that seemed poised to fail him whenever he needed it most? What was there to gain by trying anything at all? When Brienne and Lord Selwyn had been visiting, at least there had been some reason to get out of bed, to do something other than relive each of his deaths on repeat, his own blood spilling out onto the cobblestones of Winterfell seared onto the backs of his eyelids. Being buried under the Red Keep hardly felt real anymore, the image of bricks raining down on him a blessed release of a daydream rather than the nightmare of dying in Brienne’s arms.

Was it seeing Brienne (a Brienne that could love him, a Brienne that could live with and for him) that had made the difference?

On the bleak days on which he remembered the truth of what lurked in Casterly Rock in place of love, he poured a performance of joy into Tyrion’s weary heart until the boy could take no more and wandered off on his own with no need for his older brother. And then Jaime collapsed into himself, the wildfire of his sadness consuming the Sept of Baelor from beneath, and retreated back to the safety of his bed. He could sleep there, unbothered and unloved in peace, haunted by Brienne tying their wrists together with a bootlace wet by her tears.

Now that he had passed the initial objective of seeing her with flying colors, with her affections as a guarantee, it had occurred to him with some finality that he had to continue to live this life for her sake and his own. That the moments without Brienne would need to be made as tolerable as the moments she defined by her presence. And until they were wed, there would be plenty of the former and not much of the latter, given the great distance between Casterly Rock and Tarth.

If only she lived closer, close enough that he could see her once every few moons or so, just to fight away the shadows in his soul that Cersei had left behind with the sunshine of Brienne’s smile. If only he wanted her less. If only he didn’t crave the oblivion of her hand on her shoulder, of her laugh in his ear, whenever he could feel Cersei on him like a stain that would never come out. If only she had been born into a house in the Westerlands, the daughter of a Lannister bannerman. Then they would be wed already and Jaime wouldn’t have to suffer a moment without her presence at his side, warding off the evil claws sunk deep into his hateful heart.

Cersei may have gone back to King’s Landing, but the wounds she’d left upon him remained -- three lifetimes of wounds that he would carry with him forever, and perhaps without Brienne at all. She could have lied to his face, easily, could have told him she was entertaining the idea of a wedding with a smile on her face and, with the same dagger of a smile, told Selwyn to consider other alliances. And then he would be alone, pawned off on Lysa Tully or some other girl whose riches were enough to draw his father’s attention.

He would lack the ability to question his father’s judgment at all forever.

Was such a life worth living? Had he spent so many of the Stranger’s chances to earn himself a life without both Cersei and Brienne, bound to a woman he might not ever learn to love for the purpose of churning out heirs for their fathers? Had he worked so hard to change himself, to convince himself that he could deserve better, only to fall into the same old trap of holes he’d dug for himself? What was the point in living if nothing he’d wanted ever worked out? He knew what it took, to call upon the Stranger’s mercy again. It was simple. It was easy. And with a knight’s training, he could make it quick.

On the few occasions Jaime let Tyrion into his room, Tyrion would climb into Jaime’s bed beside him, the knobs of his spine digging into Jaime’s chest, and drag one of Jaime’s arms over him like a blanket, his hand curled over Tyrion’s face, like a shield against the light pouring in through the windows. And Tyrion would sleep curled up in Jaime’s arms, and Jaime would imagine what dreams he was having. He always imagined happy dreams for Tyrion, even if Tyrion woke in tears -- they had to be tears at losing out on the ending of his dream. They couldn’t be anything else, after all Jaime had given to make sure he could fix things here, after three deaths, after tearing himself to pieces to send Cersei running.

“Did you sleep well?” Tyrion always asked Jaime, eyes heavy with the ghosts of dreams floating just out of reach, turning around to bury his face in Jaime’s arm.

Jaime would always nod. He spent all the time Tyrion was with him awake and all the rest asleep, but Tyrion didn’t need to know the truth. Tyrion only needed to hear what he wanted -- that Jaime hadn’t felt a damn ounce of sadness since Cersei had left and that he was too busy for his little brother, not unwilling to see him. Jaime gave it freely, so Tyrion would smile a little more, played the game of smoke and mirrors that Cersei had made him perfect as a child like a professional.

You should have been a mummer, Cersei had once said, after Jaime had cried his eyes out curled up like a snail in the corner of her room, arms wrapped tight around himself for want of someone in the world to hold him. Cersei had said she was too warm in her bed to help, that she didn’t know what he needed, nor did she know how to plug the holes in his heart, and Jaime had bawled and bawled until he had no more tears to cry.

Eyes dry and heart aching, he’d called out to Cersei. Even his voice was wet, his nose running and chest heaving, and she’d climbed out of bed with a sigh, blanket still wrapped tight around herself, and sat beside him like he’d ordered her execution, a cold hand on his shoulder and a voice whispering in his ear that no one would ever love someone like him, someone that cried and carried on so loudly, someone that could never feel an ounce of sympathy for anyone but himself. That’s why we’re mirrors, she’d said, a smile on her face. Because we don’t have to feel anything for anyone but each other. All you need is me. All I need is you.

And faithfully, stupidly, through lifetimes, he’d given her as much of himself as he could so he could watch her gorge on the little shining bits of himself he’d worked so hard to give life. Even here, she’d played him for a fool, no matter how dearly he believed that he had the upper hand. And he had gone along with it, like an idiot, to the point of involving Brienne in their family. He made her come all the way to Casterly Rock, and for what? To watch their farce of a family act out the same old play? To watch Jaime struggle to stand up to Cersei again, after claiming to be a better man now, and what?

Feel sympathy?

Feel kindness?

Feel regret, more like.

Months passed and no ravens came to him from Tarth and he convinced himself, slowly but surely, that he did not deserve one.

* * *

_Ser Jaime,_

He could have wept from the relief of seeing those two words in Brienne’s sprawling, ungainly hand. It wasn’t nearly as monumental as “Jaime”, alone and self-reliant, would have been, but it wouldn’t have been proper -- Brienne knew better than most what the price for flouting propriety was. She knew well when it was worth paying it and when it wasn’t. But they would be married soon enough, and there would be plenty of letters to come with no “Ser” before his name for the best reason of all.

_In the time since I saw you last, I have been taking your advice to heart. The swordsmen on Tarth are much less confident. I am sorry my letter took so long -- once we arrived on Tarth, there was much to do, and I found myself without the time to sit down and write you as thoughtful a letter as you deserve. I know you must have worried, with me not speaking to you immediately after spending time with your sister, and for that, I apologize._

His heart flew in his chest, sprouting big, beautiful wings, at the thought of Brienne disarming every man who swore up and down he was more skilled than her. The idea that his tips and tricks had meant anything of import to her was earthshaking. Brienne of Tarth, perhaps the finest knight Westeros had to offer (though she didn’t officially carry the title yet, but just as he had in their first, best life, Jaime would make sure it happened here, come hell, high water, or Cersei’s derision), taking his advice and winning for it.

He could hardly stand it, this affirmation of his worth, the apology for hurting him -- it occurred to him then, a shock coursing through his body, that people had rarely, if at all, apologized to him for any pain they’d caused him before. Brienne was among the first. He’d gone straight from Cersei’s razor sharp claws to Aerys’ talons digging into all the soft places they could find until Jaime tore them out of himself in the name of self-preservation with bloody, shaking hands. Raised at the altar of neglect and ridicule, by the time Aerys had got his hands on him, Jaime had been primed for abuse, to accept anything Aerys gave him, good or bad, with a bowed head and a complete lack of care for what it would cost him.

And it had been Brienne who had convinced him, in short gorgeous bursts, that he could ask for what he wanted, that it would matter in the long run whether or not he was happy. That people would ask for his opinion and mean it. That someday, he would be called something other than “Kingslayer”, would be loved and appreciated, if not for the service he’d done by killing Aerys, then despite it.

_Cersei told me nothing I consider of import, but what she said did worry me. We will speak about my concerns when we see each other next. My worries are not of a nature that could be communicated well over writing. Her words did confirm for me that you spoke truly, when we were at Casterly Rock, and while it may be presumptuous to say so, I am looking forward to our wedding (and not just for the tournament, which your father promised would be extravagant and Cersei told me I should not fight in, at any cost)._

He had worried about what Cersei had had to say to her, but if Brienne said there was nothing to worry about, Jaime would believe it. At least for now. There were plenty of things Cersei said about him regularly that sounded innocuous on the surface but lent themselves easily to paranoid questioning of his behavior, to uncovering unrelated, unremarkable faults that somehow validated a subconscious bad impression Cersei had carefully cultivated. He didn’t doubt Brienne was smart enough to call Cersei’s ploys what they were, but Cersei was a master at her craft and King’s Landing had hardly honed her talent for deception and inflicting pain as much as she claimed it had -- she was already cutthroat and murderous before she left Casterly Rock for the first time.

Brienne’s word, her reminder that she, who had plenty of reasons to despair of their wedding, was excited to see him again -- that would have to be enough. This would have to settle his racing heart, the whirlpools of doubt in his skull, the ache in his chest whenever he realized she was too far away to call out to. That would not be true for much longer. If he had waited this long without making a fool of himself, he could certainly wait a little longer.

_Please tell Tyrion he is dearly missed -- he made quite an impression on my father in the time they spent together, who speaks of him often, and would like him to know he is welcome on Tarth any time. If Tyrion would like exact words, my father said “these halls need some laughter, and wherever Tyrion goes, there seems to be plenty”. He would like me to clarify that you are welcome too, Jaime, but that you would be my guest rather than his, as my betrothed._

Tyrion would be beyond pleased to hear he’d made such a stellar impression, though their father would likely act as if he’d imposed upon the Evenstar’s time. Jaime would have to tell Tyrion in confidence, after he’d made sure none of his father’s spies were afoot.

Perhaps another trip to the caves was in order.

_If you can, I would like to see you before the wedding. But I hear you will be busy with Casterly Rock, as your father seeks to move to King’s Landing full time and leave more of the day to day business at the Rock to you. Either way, we will be together in a few months’ time. The time will pass quickly, should we both stay dedicated to our own goals. I am practicing every exercise you recommended and have acquired the book you told me about. Hopefully, when I see you next, I can best you with even greater ease than before._

_Yours,_  
_ Brienne_

He had never thought two words could set his heart aflutter so. But here they were, daring him to feel anything but joy.

* * *

The wedding invitations were sent by raven, as far as Winterfell in the north and Sunspear to the east. Jaime could barely contain himself as he watched the replies pour in.

Some were from old childhood friends, others from distant family, others from his fellow former squires from his time fostering at House Crakehall. The royal family would be in attendance. With Cersei’s betrothal to Rhaegar still intact, they would be married in earnest, Aerys promised. Jaime saw nothing but the gilded cage his freedom had built his sister. The Mad King had wanted a Lannister twin, had wanted Jaime, and when denied him, had decided Cersei would work well enough.

If he’d had any sense, Aerys would have claimed Cersei as his target at the beginning. Tywin’s fondness for her (though nothing compared to the affection most fathers held for their daughters) was an ocean compared to the river of piss he bestowed on his sons. He’d only looked to Jaime because of Cersei’s wilfulness, her tendency to swing toward extremes without a second’s introspection -- Jaime had always been easier to manipulate, quicker to bend the knee, and now Aerys was stuck with the reins of an unbreakable stallion.

All Jaime could do was pray that Robert would rebel before anything happened to his sister. It would be coming soon now -- the whispers of dissent in the Stormlands (the same Stormlands his betrothed hailed from). Tarth had raised its banners for the Baratheons once -- would they again? If the Lannisters spoke against the Targaryens, with Cersei’s life in their hands, what could happen?

He looked to his father, who sat peaceful at the table, and even smiled sparingly at Jaime when he noticed his son. His father had threatened, just short weeks before, to that Westeros would understand that Jaime was no longer an able knight, but the Lord of Casterly Rock, who would keep his nose out of wars and sit pretty in his gilded chair, like a little boy playing dress up.

Was that his way of protecting his son as he could no longer protect his daughter?

* * *

Seeing Brienne again was like being saved from drowning at the last possible second. Jaime could breathe again, hauled onto dry land and retching water, and there she was, smiling at him, treading the line of propriety with ease. He was struck speechless and she stared at him, lips slightly parted and jaw working like she had words in mind but couldn’t quite shape them into being.

“Lady Brienne.” Jaime said, after several minutes of staring. He wanted to reach out for her, wanted to fold her into the tightest embrace the world had ever seen. “Well met.”

They found themselves laughing nervously as they considered the impassable distance between them. It wouldn’t be proper to find homes in each other’s arms, but oh, how Jaime wanted to send propriety packing. But it also wouldn’t be proper to stare at each other in silence when their fathers were obviously waiting for them to cut their antics short. There was the business of planning a marriage to discuss, the flowers and the food and the decorations, and Jaime wanted no part of any of it save for Brienne’s eyes on his, like they were now.

“Lord Jaime.” She said, her voice shaking like an earthquake. He ached to call her wife, to call her his. “Well met.”

* * *

“Your father says there will be a tournament.” Brienne said, good humor turning her face incandescent. “To celebrate our marriage.”

“It seems you are more excited for the tournament than our marriage.” Jaime smiled. “Deeply encouraging.”

“No, I just thought…” She ducked her head, blushing. “The tournament... I thought I could…” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I like watching them, that’s all.”

Jaime despised tournaments with every inch of his being, and only ever attended because he liked winning more than he despised the unnecessary fuss and flowers of the event. He hated rolling around in the dirt during melees, hated the dust that horses kicked up in the joust, hated the noise of the crowds. He much preferred battles, where everything that happened felt wildly impossible, than the manufactured spectacle marketed to people would never pick up a sword in their lives.

“I don’t.” Jaime said with a grin, and Brienne gasped. “They’re awful.”

“But you’ve fought in so many.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like them.” Jaime shrugged. “But if you do..” He frowned. “Maybe we should get you a suit of armor in time, my lady.”

“Your father would never allow me to fight.” She said, tight lipped, and his heart fluttered like a trapped bird in his chest, trying to think of anything at all to say to lift the damp, bleak sadness that settled over her like a heavy cloak, sucking him into its orbit.

“He will not be around forever.” Jaime said and she looked at him quizzically. “You do not need to be ‘allowed’ to do anything, anyhow. You’re perfectly capable of making the choice yourself.”

And there it was, her smile brighter than the sun, his eyes in danger of being melted in his skull by its burning light. And yet, he could not look away.

“Being married to you might not be terrible.” Brienne admitted grudgingly and beside them, Lord Selwyn (who was attempting to appear as if he was not eavesdropping) muffled laughter.

“Thank you, my lady.” Jaime shot his future good-father a look and Lord Selwyn of Tarth shrugged, like a chastised boy. “Being married to you might not be terrible either.”

* * *

They found themselves on his favorite balcony again -- now hers as well.

The months apart had softened their hearts to one another even further, more than Jaime had ever thought possible. Seeing her had been like the world coloring itself in anew. He hadn’t realized how dull he’d become, how meaningless everything had felt, without her by his side. He had longed for her for years, in this life, the last, and the one before that, and it had all built up to a groundswell of reckless exuberance at the sight of her, ready to marry him, of all people.

Brienne, in her breeches and tunic, pointing out stars that had been hiding their faces behind clouds during her last visit, smiling at him like he was a gift she was being given. Brienne, who looked delirious with joy, glancing back again and again at the place where their hands were separated by only a centimeter of space, as if waiting for him to close the distance.

Brienne, Brienne, Brienne. His world narrowed down to her so very easily. What else was there worth seeing?

“We are to be married tomorrow.” Jaime said softly, still unable to believe it. After all these years of longing, his most secret wish was coming true, unfolding into his life like a flower blooming in early spring. His most dearly held desire, one he’d nursed like an infant screaming in the night -- purely to shut it up, for a time, then because he’d grown to love the constancy of it, the embers of it warming his chest. “Are you not scared?”

“I have seen many men who deserve to be feared. I have known some of them.” Brienne considered her next words carefully, tipping her head back to take the sky in, and Jaime saw his Brienne, the way she’d looked at Winterfell, on this Brienne’s face. Someday, they would grow old together, and gladly. They would have so many more years together than they had. “You are not one of them.”

“That you would think of me so kindly, I-- I--” Jaime took her hand, and maybe he had dreamed it, but it looked as if fireworks were going off in Brienne’s eyes. “I don’t deserve it.” He thought of how scared he’d been as those weeks and months had passed without a letter from her, how convinced he had been that he was ruined, unlovable, and broken. “You are-- you are always so kind to me.”

“And I will be kind to you for as long as I can.” Brienne said, the vicious energy she always brought to promises making her words glow in the dark. “I can only hope to show you a fraction of the kindness you have given me.”

“Given what?” Jaime challenged. “I have given nothing.”

“You have given your heart.” Brienne said, embarrassed. “That is certainly not nothing.”

He inched across the cobblestones to her, each drag of the stone against his legs feeling like a thousand knives, eyes wide in shock. She placed her free hand on his shoulder, cupping the joint gently, sapphire eyes locked on his. She was beyond perfection and any man who said otherwise knew nothing of beauty.

“Keep it.” Jaime stammered. “It was only taking up space.”

Brienne guffawed and he dove forward into her, pulling her into his chest. Her head knocked into his awkwardly, her nose digging into his forehead, and Jaime smiled against her neck with a shyness he rarely felt. Her hand came up to cradle the back of his head gently, their hearts beating out of time together.

“Jaime?” She asked, breathless, and he tipped his head back to see her face, caressed gently by the moonlight, shining like the finest marble in the world. Like it, he supposed, she came from Tarth. He would have to see the island someday, by her side. “Jaime, what are you--”

“I should like to kiss you.” Jaime stumbled over his words, like a child learning how to speak. He flushed an angry, violent crimson, the same color as the cloak he would drape over her shoulders tomorrow. He waited for her reaction, but when he continued to blink at him, slack jawed and brow furrowed, he forged ahead. “So we don’t embarrass ourselves, tomorrow.” She winced, and he backtracked neatly. “I just-- I-- I don’t--” He moved to pull away, but she dragged him in closer, so close that their breaths mingled, that he hardly felt separate from her.

They were one, Jaime-and-Brienne, and they were perfect.

“That’s the first time you’ve asked me. For something you want. Without talking about anyone else.” She said, eyes aglow with wonder. “And-- and you make it sound like a-- a, you know, a kiss from me, it’ll-- it’ll change everything.”

“Won’t it?” Jaime replied, eyes locked on her lips. He licked his own and her eyes widened in shock. “Won’t it change everything, Brienne?”

“It might.” She admitted grudgingly, eyes darting about as she tried to gauge his intentions, to measure the size and depth of his honesty. “We are to be married tomorrow. Why not wait?”

“What if I cannot wait for tomorrow?” Jaime asked. “What if-- what if the heart you say I gave you, what if it wants now?” The hand at the back of his head tightened in his hair. “It is only hours until the Sept, until the ceremony, like you said, but--”

Brienne’s lips, dry and cracked, met his gently, a brush of her skin against his, and she pulled back, eyes struggling to focus on his, as if that one moment had knocked the ground out from beneath her. Her fingers dug into his skin and Jaime could almost scream with the joy those little pinpricks of pain brought him, reminders that Brienne was there, that she loved him, that so tiny and fleeting a kiss brought her to her knees so surely as it had for him.

“I think I love you.” Jaime said, desperately trying to be casual, as casual as he could be, with lifetimes of love, regret, and hope to carry. It was Brienne’s eyes on his lips now, a curious little reversal, and he placed his bad hand against her cheek. It remained compliant, for now, and he thanked the Seven for it. “I think-- I think we will be happy together for many, many years. You will be my knight and I will be your husband and we will be-- we will be so happy.” His voice broke and Brienne held him tight against her as he cried, the nervousness he’d felt all day bursting like a bubble. “We will be happy together, I know it, I just know it.”

“You seem to be crying a lot, for someone who thinks we will be happy together.” Brienne joked, and he laughed through his tears, a wet, choking noise escaping him as he buried his face in the side of her neck, his lips dragging along her collarbone through layers of clothing. Brienne stiffened beneath him, as if his touch burned, her hands gripping him so tightly he thought she might shatter.

“I will cry again tomorrow.” Jaime said. “Because you will marry me.”

“So long as you are happy.” Brienne smiled gently, the image of the Mother. “I will not have you crying for sadness anymore.”

* * *

The septon’s droning hardly made a dent in Jaime’s mind -- all he could see was Brienne. Brienne who had ignored all the dresses his aunts and uncles had sent up to her room, who had chosen instead to wear breeches and tunic of the same replesendent blue as Tarth’s heraldry, edged in silver. Jaime, who had far too much experience with wearing white on stressful days, was glad to see none of it. She stole his breath away, her confident smile, her unapologetic performance of herself in a moment that could damn her forever.

He smiled at her, eyes already watering, and the warmth with which she looked at him, the way her lips parted to reveal her crooked teeth, sent his heart racing in his chest. She looked at ease, relaxed. This was all he had wanted for their wedding day. Brienne had suffered so many disappointments, when he’d met her for the first time, so many abandonments and injuries, and he wanted her to look back on this day with nothing but joy, to remember it as the beginning of a truly flawless life.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

With shaking hands, Jaime undid the clasp of the blue cloak she wore, handing it to someone waiting nearby, before carefully fastening the Lannister cloak around her shoulders.Brienne’s blue clothes were swallowed up by red and gold. His colors and her own. Together. It looked as if it were meant to be, from the beginning of time. Had the Stranger known this would come to pass when he sent Jaime here?

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here now in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Brienne moved to Jaime’s side and he took her hand in his, shooting her a nervous smile as the Septon approached them with the ribbon. He squeezed her hand tight, just for a second, and she smiled back, settling his nerves.

“Let it be known that Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

Jaime repeated the last words under his breath, remembering the first time he’d said them, how different things had seemed then, how hopeless. His eyes swam with tears and Brienne’s grip tightened on him, as if she could feel the surge of emotion within him in her own heart. One heart, one soul, forever. Nothing could break them now, in the eyes of god or men. He could almost cry from the relief.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

The ribbon fell away with Jaime’s tears, which coursed down his cheeks like explorers mapping new territory. His jaw worked, like he might say something, but he swallowed the words down -- they were for Brienne’s ears only, and there would be plenty of time for that, years upon years, their future stretching on endlessly into the sunset.

“Look upon each other and say the words.”

Brienne reached up to wipe his tears away, the sweet tenderness of it nearly undoing Jaime then and there.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” They recited together, the strange symphony of their voices rising and falling together in unison. Brienne was on the edge of tears herself, he could feel it in his veins, could feel his heart calling out to hers, assuring her that she would be safe here.

“I am hers and she is mine.” Jaime croaked out, before the Septon asked him to speak. “From this day, until the end of my days.”

Brienne dissolved into loud, braying laughter, and Jaime followed her lead as he always had, his heart falling into her hands to find solace, to find joy, to find laughter, to find purpose. To feel something more than the misery he’d been born into and bound to for life. To be a part of something greater. He owed so much of himself to her, so much of what he could be, and he found himself comfortable with being in her debt -- he would pay her back, as Lannisters always did, and now he had a lifetime in which to do it.

“I am his and he is mine.” Brienne said, with such authority that Jaime almost crumbled before her. Her eyes bored into him like spears piercing his heart, the most delightful kind of agony. “From this day until the end of my days.”

He stood silent, jaw slack and dumbstruck, until the Septon asked Jaime if he would like to get on with it, really, as everyone was waiting. Jaime nodded wordlessly, letting out a string of garbled syllables that he hoped sounded something like “with this kiss, I pledge my love” before launching himself at Brienne for a kiss that felt both too long and too short at once.

He pulled back, out of breath and sweating bullets, but thoroughly, desperately exuberant.They turned to face the assembled guests, red faced and glancing at each other like little children caught in mischief.

“From this day, until the end of my days.” Jaime whispered. “Next, we’ll secure your knighthood.”

Brienne startled slightly, as if she’d forgotten his promise, as if she’d have wanted him regardless.

“You mean it?” She asked, before sidling closer to him. “Lord husband.” The words were for him alone, her lips centimeters from his ear, and he felt a shock course through his whole body at them. He was hers and she knew it.

Everyone knew it, now.

“I do, lady wife.” Jaime said softly. “Or ser wife, as the case may be.” He smiled and she smiled back, an easy, predictable conclusion he could always depend on. He squeezed her hand tight and she bit her lip, a flash of teeth peeking through as she smiled again, despite her best efforts. “We will be happy.”

“I know.” Brienne said, her conviction unshakeable. “You promised.”

* * *

“You’re married.” Tyrion informed them, as if they’d missed the ceremony, and Jaime stole his cup, hiding it under the table, clutched between his knees. “Hey!”

“Only water for you, from now on.” Jaime teased. “You awful gossip.”

“We’re married, Jaime.” Brienne said innocently. “Had you noticed?” She laughed, spurring a honking giggle from Tyrion, who would likely need to be walked to his room, once the feast was over.

“I hadn’t. In fact, Tyrion has been the first to tell me. Thank you, good-brother.”

“Oh, just brother will do.” Tyrion beamed. “You’re more a sister to me than ours, at any rate.” He unleashed a rather rude series of hand gestures at Cersei, who was deep in conversation with their father. “What is man fated to but sorrow, so long as the devil walks among us?”

“She’s returning to King’s Landing soon.” Jaime said, and Tyrion heaved a sigh of relief so potent he nearly fell from his chair.

“Not even a word to her new sister. So much for propriety.” Jaime mumbled, though he knew that was what closing the door between himself and Cersei had meant. She spared not a second for those she had no use for, and he was beyond her control now, clay shaped by Brienne’s hands and not hers. She wouldn’t spare a thought for her brother -- he was as dead to her as the false memories of her love were to him.

“She left all her graces in King’s Landing.” Tyrion rolled his eyes. “See that she doesn’t try to kill you during the bedding.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Jaime felt as if his balls had shot all the way up into his skull. His blood ran cold at the thought of what Cersei might do, what he had heard of her doing to men who jilted her. Robert had ended up dead when she’d decided she was done with him.

Why wouldn’t she stoop to doing the same to Jaime, on the night of his wedding? Why wouldn’t she do worse to Jaime, on the night of his wedding?

When he looked over at her next, she was staring at him openly, a cat like smile on her face. She had something planned. He could feel it. His skin itched.

Brienne’s hand rested at the small of his back, pressing just hard enough that he could feel it, through his many layers of clothing, and he felt steadied, or closer to it than he had before. He took a deep breath at her whispered urging and nodded, shooting her a nervous smile before she relented. Jaime felt the least bit more confident in his ability to get through the night without hurling the contents of his stomach onto the table before them.

Tyrion shrieked, drawing the attention (and ire) of their father.

“You’re DISGUSTING!” He roared, pouting, the little lion demanding his tithe in attention. “Save that for later!”

“So eager to be bedded, Jaime?” Cersei’s voice swept over Tyrion’s head, just for Jaime to hear, the rest of the guests laughing unawares.

Jaime flinched and Brienne pulled him halfway into her lap. When he looked up at her, he found her eyes afire with fury, one of her hands clenched into a fist around his right wrist. He hadn’t felt it at all, and now, looking down at Brienne’s hand around his wrist, he wondered if it would bruise. It would be proof enough that something had passed between them, should their fathers ask in the morning.

“It is none of your business what my husband is eager for.” Brienne said coldly, careful to keep her voice low. The barely restrained anger within it licked at the base at Jaime’s spine like fire, sparking along his nerves. “If you worry so about bedding a man, perhaps it’s time you and Rhaegar married.”

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her.” Tyrion whispered, awestruck. “You’re my favorite sister.”

“Thank you, Tyrion.” Brienne said, sweet as spun sugar. He had prayed so desperately for her to love Tyrion as much as he did, and she did. And Tyrion thought the world of her, to boot. There was no other woman with which Jaime could have been so lucky. “And you are my favorite brother.”

Her hand, splayed out against Jaime’s back, felt like the only thing rooting him to the ground, besides the dull burning in his right wrist, now that she’d let it go. He shifted gingerly out of her lap, back onto his own chair, hoping that no one had noticed, but the party raged on around them, plenty of merriment and alcohol keeping tongues loose and attention diverted. He cradled his wrist in his lap, the aching fingers of his right hand caged within those of his left.

Brienne spotted the source of his hesitance instantly, her fingers trailing up the side of his arm gently as her eyes stayed locked on his wrist, which, upon peeling back the sleeve of his jacket, seemed to be rapidly purpling. He could feel it like a punch to the chest when her breath caught at the sight of it, and he shook his head just enough for her to see it, rolling his sleeve back down.

“Shall we retire?” She asked, her voice trembling, still staring at Jaime’s wrist.

“I can’t feel it.” He said softly. “You do not have to worry about me.”

“I don’t think many people have.” She replied. “Let me be the first, then.”

He leaned in for a kiss, smiling against her lips, to a few wolf whistles from the lesser lords at the low tables. He wasn’t surprised when they were roughly pulled apart, his childhood friend Addam in charge of dragging him toward the chamber prepared for their wedding night. Cersei grabbed his right wrist as Addam dragged him past, twisting it cruelly, and he nearly bit through his tongue at the flash of pain that overwhelmed him. When he looked back over at Cersei, she was smiling that vile, conniving smile of hers.

He felt nothing, no emptiness, no sorrow, no aching desire for her redemption. All he could think of was Brienne, the life that they had been promised, the life that he would gladly, joyfully live to its very limits. Addam and the rest of the men marched him along winding paths like a criminal and pushed him through the door before locking it shut behind him.

Before him stood Brienne, having changed out of her wedding clothes into ones more suited for sleeping, worry written clearly on her face.

“Show me your hand, Jaime.” She said, holding hers out, and he offered his right hand gladly, as he had always done, ignoring the way it felt as if all the blood had drained out of it, leaving it ungainly and useless, heavy and prickly in the strangest sort of way.

Her thumb rubbed along the side of his palm and he shook his head. He didn’t feel it. She turned his hand over gently, running her fingers up his palm toward his fingers, and he nearly jumped when brushing over one sore spot had him hissing in pain. She brought his hand up to her lips then, raining kisses down over his knuckles, and even if it didn’t soothe the pain away, even if it didn’t heal the wrist, it would be good enough to heal his heart. He could take any pain in the world if it kept her here -- he’d died for it twice -- and she was here, holding his right hand just as she would have held his left, seeing no difference between the two.

“It looks worse.” She said. “Your wrist.”

“Cersei.” Jaime said, and Brienne’s eyes darkened. “She isn’t here, Brienne. I am.” He drew closer to her, his right hand settling on the slight curve of her hip. “I am.” He leaned in for a kiss, hoping to make her forget all the injustices his family had heaped upon him, and all that would come in the future. Being Lady Lannister, even without the knighthood she sought, was a difficult path. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes falling shut as he breathed her in. “You said you would be the first. For me. I-- whatever you need, whatever you want, use me.”

“What do you need?” She ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eyes. She fixed him with that curious, inquisitive stare that had almost brought him to his knees at the altar. “What do you want, Jaime?”

“I want-- I want--” Jaime’s whole body shook with the incomprehensible nature of being asked what he wanted, on being told it was up to him what happened or did not tonight.

With Cersei it had never been about him -- he was always a means to an end, as replaceable as a tool. Tyrion had called it what it was -- Cersei had needed a man, and any man would have done. Lancel had, Euron had, and countless others whose names Jaime would never know. Jaime had just been unlucky enough to fall for her trap more reliably than any other man in Westeros. She had called him home, for his stupidity, and he had eaten it up, believing it to be love.

She carded a hand through his hair again, nothing but love in her eyes for him. True love, not a mummer’s farce. She meant it when she said she would worry for him and take care of him. Brienne would never lie to him.

“I’m tired.” He said honestly, with a voice so small he could hardly believe it came from his mouth. “My-- my hand hurts.” He watched her for any sign of disappointment, but her face betrayed nothing but concern, as she took his hand again, gently turning it this way and that, as if the cause of his pain might bubble to the surface.

“Do you have anything for the pain?” She asked and he shook his head. “Will you be able to sleep?”

“I might.” He said. “I might not. It all depends.”

“On what?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime said, and hesitantly pulled one of Brienne’s arms around him. The other joined it, squeezing him tight against her chest, and he melted into her. “The-- the servants, the septon, they’ll be looking for proof. In the morning.” He tore himself away from her, raising his right hand to his mouth, and bit down on the fragile skin of his thumb until it bled, swiping the blood across their sheets. He shook it like a dog shaking off water after a bath as Brienne stared at him, mortified. “There. They-- they can’t claim anything, between that and my wrist.”

Brienne winced, tracing the ragged edges of the bruise.

“Try my left next time.” Jaime smirked. “I would like to feel it.”

Brienne laughed and they tumbled into their marriage bed like wrestling bear cubs, tossing pillows at each other like children playing at war. Jaime almost forgot the pain in his wrist until a particularly rough throw awakened it again, the razor sharp teeth of it gnashing at the base of his palm, a few raw lightning strikes attacking his elbow. He gasped, struck speechless for a few moments, and Brienne’s face hovered above him, his eyes finally focusing on her nose.

“Jaime?” She asked, frowning. “Is your arm--”

“No worse than it was before, no better than it will be.” Jaime said gently, reaching out with his right hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek. “I-- I might need help with my clothes. If you’re, well, I can-- I can call someone to help me undress, if--”

“Nonsense.” Brienne began undoing the fancy ties of his jacket easily, her fingers making quick work of what had seemed to him an impossible puzzle. She eased it down over his shoulders, then unlaced his tunic and slid that up over his head, helping him jar his right arm minimally when she tugged it free. Her fingers paused at the laces of his breeches, and she kept her eyes locked onto his, her cheeks coloring. “Would you like me to--”

“I can do that much.” Jaime insisted, feeling awfully embarrassed, and turned away from her as he undid the laces, slipping out of everything but his smallclothes before hunting around for the clothes he’d asked Tyrion to sneak in. He tugged them on one handed, eager to impress (or prove his independence, both seemed the same these days), and fell into bed beside Brienne, careful to keep his right arm close to his chest.

She brought both her hands to his face, cupping his cheeks like he was a treasure, not forcing him to meet her eyes, and placed a quick, hesitant kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you.” She said, prying his right arm from his chest to press a kiss to the still sluggishly bleeding cut on his thumb. “For tonight.” She kissed his thumb again. “For everything.”

He was overcome by a wave of tenderness so powerful that even lying down, his knees felt weak.

“I want to love you as you love me.” He said, voice trembling just as his body did, creeping closer to her until they were pressed together, from head to toe, seeking out each other’s warmth. “I want to have the chance to-- to show you what you mean to me.”

“There will be plenty of other chances.” Brienne said, and she sounded relieved, to not be bothered tonight. “We will use them as we please.”

“If you’re sure.” Jaime nodded slowly. He buried his face in the side of her neck, breathing in the sharp tang of her sweat, and lay a kiss on her throat when she raised a hand to the back of his head again, her fingers splaying out with an intimate familiarity that made him blush.

Maybe marriage wouldn’t be so hard after all, if every night were like this one.

* * *

The knights had set their tents up around the grounds of Casterly Rock, the little cloth cones rising from the earth like garishly colored trees, bearing the colors and sigils of their owners’ houses. It was easy to forget that they stood on top of a stone hill three times as tall as the Wall, with all the bustle of the tournament taking place atop it, and Jaime, who had never been afraid of heights or failure, drank it all in.

Jaime had no need for a tent -- Casterly Rock was his, his claim sealed with his marriage, and he dressed by himself. Alone, not under his own power -- his hand had been cramping since early morning, so badly that he’d woken Brienne with bitten off cries of pain that left tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. He still wasn’t able to feel much of his palm -- his thumb and index finger were completely numb, and his middle finger wasn’t much better. He didn’t see how much good a pinky and ring finger could do, in the grand scheme of things, but he would do his best.

Brienne had offered to help him put his armor on, and she bustled about expertly, strapping him into the expensive, filigreed plate armor that he’d worn when he fought against the Kingswood Brotherhood. That would have been just shy of a year ago, in this life. She helped him fit his right hand into the gauntlet, and he let out a harsh breath through his nose when the fingers pressed too tight. His head spun and Brienne steadied him without thinking, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his waist.

“Will you be okay?” She placed her hand lightly over the gauntlet covering Jaime’s right hand, and even that slight increase in pressure brought tears to his eyes again, the burning of the invisible needles that seemed to pierce his flesh from every possible angle unbearable. “I can-- I can tell your father, if you can’t--”

“No.” Jaime said gruffly. “I have to compete. For us.” He knew what the Court would say, if he kept his distance, especially after he’d turned down the prestigious offer of a seat on Aerys’ Kingsguard. The Lion of Lannister had to ride again, no matter how it ended. “I’ll be okay, Brienne.” He set his left hand on her shoulder, careful of its weight, with the gauntlet on, but Brienne bore it eagerly, all the pride of a knight in her eyes. “You need not worry about me.”

“I have already told you what I think of that.” She said, caressing his face. “I will say it as many times as you need to hear it. I will worry as much as I like about you. I am your wife now. You cannot deny me.”

He smiled like a fool. “So you are.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in as close as he could, and she smiled softly at the little indulgence he allowed himself. “I would rather you fight, but my father would never allow me to sit by, especially when my lady wife was more willing than I.”

“Someday I will give you my favor.” Brienne’s eyes flashed with mirth. “Will you accept it?”

“Gladly.” Jaime said, breathless at the thought.

“Be safe.” She said, brow creased with worry. “If you think it might be too difficult…”

“I can switch hands, if necessary.” Jaime said. “I just-- it will be difficult to do so quickly. I may be injured, while I do so.” He wanted her to be prepared, to know this for what it was. Tywin’s words about setting up an explanation for his hand had never quite left his mind, lingering like an unwanted guest, and he knew this was to be it. “I will do my best to come home safe, Brienne, but… should that not happen…”

“No need to borrow trouble.” Brienne said stubbornly. “You are home, so it is merely a matter of staying safe.”

Something would happen today that would irreparably break Jaime, to justify his lack of a swordhand, and Brienne would be so unlucky as to have to witness it. Tywin had the perfect excuse -- with the tournament. Jaime wouldn’t be surprised if he’d picked an unbeatable opponent for him. Perhaps a knight of the Kingsguard, someone who would embarrass Jaime while giving Tywin a reasonable defense.

He’d been little more than a squire when he’d fought with the Kingsguard, and it would be reasonable to assume that the Lion of Lannister, gallant and brave though he was, had simply lost his edge in preparation for marriage. Many knights settled into more lordly roles, as time went on, as their families called for it -- it was one reason why the Kingsguard was prized above all others, for their sacrifice of their family names in the name of duty, honor, and eternal service.

Jaime had wanted the white cloak for those reasons, long ago, but now he knew better. Duty, honor, and eternal service could be found at any door, at any set of feet, at any hearth. It was just a matter of finding the right cause, the right place, the right person, the right motivation. He had been so lucky as to find all four in one person.

“I want you to know I love you.” He said shyly. “In case something happens.”

“Nothing will happen.” Brienne said, every inch of her brave and strong. He so wished he could be like her. She stroked his hair and he very nearly purred in contentment. From the glance he cast at her and her satisfied smirk, she’d guessed it anyway. “I will see you after you have fought. I will help you with your armor. We will go ask the maester for something for your hand. And then we will watch the rest, together. It will be just fine, Jaime. You are-- you are a brilliant knight. With no equal, right hand or not.”

“Thank you.” He swallowed hard. “It means-- It means a lot coming from such a talented swordswoman.”

Brienne grumbled something under her breath and patted Jaime’s left shoulder blade harder than she strictly needed to.

“There are plenty more compliments where that came from, lady wife.” Jaime joked, trying to feel as confident as he sounded. “Tonight, you will hear all of them.” He didn’t know what his father had planned, but there would likely be no tonight, at least not the way Brienne, given her red face, was imagining it.

* * *

Jaime rode out along the stands, looking around for Brienne’s face, before finding her just close enough to toss his favor to -- a thin gold chain with a lion’s head pendant -- and she caught it easily, clutching it to her chest like a rare treasure. He had fought in far too many tournaments to lose his cool over the sight of her face transformed by joy, but it came very close, his legs shaking in the stirrups as he thought of the singular smile on her face, the soft sunshine of her eyes when she caught the necklace.

The feeling only doubled when he wondered what she might throw to him someday.

The knight beside him wore a shield with the black dog on a yellow field of House Clegane -- he was far too big to be Sandor, so he must be the other brother, Ser Gregor. Jaime barely suppressed a shudder -- Ser Gregor was well known for his brutality, even among the assorted criminals parading as vassals to House Lannister, and even better for his willingness to do anything in Jaime’s father’s name. He didn’t expect any of the same loyalty to be extended to him; Ser Gregor was his father’s creature, as faithful as he was cruel, and on several occasions, he’d heard his father speak of Ser Gregor fondly, as one would an unruly pet causing trouble.

Jaime stood no chance against Ser Gregor. He was tall, by most standards, but Ser Gregor stood more than half a meter taller than him and was twice Jaime’s weight, if not thrice. His horse snuffled and growled, every bit as ornery as its master. Jaime suspected that if the Mountain (as Ser Gregor was known) didn’t run him down, his horse would do so in his master’s name. There was no winning this fight -- there was only losing as little as possible.

He cast a glance at Brienne, who looked quite pale at the sight of Ser Gregor, before riding back to his end of the list. His father likely would have told the Mountain not to kill him, but he hadn’t known Ser Gregor to stop when he was told to. No, Jaime would be dead before anyone called an end to this madness. And Brienne would be a widow, and the Stranger would likely let Jaime die this time, seeing as he’d wasted his best chance at redemption.

Ser Gregor’s horse pawed at the ground fiercely, nostrils flaring, and Jaime burst into action when the trumpet blew, hoping against all hope that he could try and survive the first pass through speed and technique alone. Ser Gregor truly looked the part of a mountain as he charged toward Jaime, lance leveled at Jaime’s head, and all Jaime could do was hope, hope, hope--

* * *

He woke slowly, first coming to a fuzzy sort of awareness where he heard sounds from a great distance, as if he were underwater, and slowly climbing up through the waves toward daylight. His head ached like someone had bashed it all the way in and he was distantly aware of his right hand continuing to cramp and shiver, his fingers bending and creaking in ways they were not meant to. A hand settled over his forehead, cool against his skin, and he blinked his eyes open with great effort, coughing weakly.

“Jaime?” Whose voice was that? It sounded panicked. Who had he hurt? Who was that, crying for him? He begged his eyes to focus, but all he could see was a swath of yellow, and then red and gold. Lannister colors. “Jaime?”

“My--my--” Jaime’s head spun, and he closed his eyes against the light. “My hand, it’s--”

“It’s as good as it’s ever been. It’s not as good as it will be.” Brienne said softly. He could see her now, backlit by the sun, her hair braided in a halo about her head. He much preferred her in clothes of her own choosing instead of dolled up like this for others’ benefit, and he knew well that she did too. Court didn’t suit Brienne. It didn’t suit him either -- Jaime would be glad when it was gone. “Jaime, you-- how do you feel?”

“Strange.” Jaime mumbled, repeating himself when a soft tap of her fingers against his left shoulder told him he hadn’t been loud enough. “It’s like-- the whole world is moving, Brienne. And-- and you’re not. You’re right in the middle.” He smiled clumsily. “You’re-- you’re the middle of everything. You’re perfect.” He exhaled lightly, reaching out with his left hand toward her. He only realized he was seeing double when he couldn’t quite touch her hand no matter how hard he tried. “Brienne? Brienne, where have you gone?”

“I’m right here, Jaime.” She whispered, but the sound of his name still rang in his ears like a dinner bell, a promise of something beautiful to come. “I won’t leave you.”

“Did-- Did Tyrion see?” The words came all in a rush, and he worried that Brienne hadn’t puzzled them out.

“Yes. He did. He’s worried about you, but he’s with Cersei and your father now.” Jaime would’ve bolted from the bed if he’d been able to find the strength to so much as raise his head. Brienne, as though noticing his pathetic attempt at an escape, ran a hand through his hair, then stopped abruptly. He reached up to feel why she’d stopped and found a bandage wrapped around his head. It felt wet -- he was bleeding. “It’s best not to touch that, Jaime. You’ll get sick.”

“Why?” He asked, deciding he’d earned a dash of petulance. His brother was in the mouths of the wolves, thanks to his ridiculous attempt at taking on the Mountain, his wife was in tears, and his father and sister were likely laughing at him as he spoke. All in all, his family was evenly split between awful and worrying, which was exactly what he’d expected. “I want to.”

“You don’t.” Brienne snorted. “You just want to do something I said no to.”

“So?” Jaime whined. “What’s the problem with that?”

“Your lord father sends his regards.” Brienne said. “And he--” Here, she frowned, her face twisting into something ugly in anger. “He requests that you come watch the tournament continue tomorrow, by my side, or today, if you are able, once you wake. At the maester’s leave, of course.”

“Not a single surprise there.” Jaime chuckled, and Brienne looked crestfallen. “He probably made sure I was matched with Clegane.”

Anger shone clear in her blue eyes, now, and Jaime wondered what he had said to upset her. He had only told the truth. Wasn’t she the one always after him to tell the truth?

She looked as if she had bitten into a lemon, rind and all. “I heard-- I heard Clegane is one of your bannermen. Why would he-- why would he do this?”

“Do… do what?”

“He unseated you.” Brienne’s voice shook and Jaime reached out for her, wanting to soothe whatever of her sadness he could. She took his left hand like a lifeline, an awful, pained cry tearing its way out of her. He wanted to cry at the sight of her so terribly disarmed, rubbed raw by his pain, and he did, tears spilling over as he hiccuped. “You-- you fell so hard, Jaime, and your head hit the ground-- They took your helmet and you were bleeding, Jaime--” She leaned in so close he could feel her breaths against his face, their tears mingling together, and kissed him gently.

Was something wrong with his face that she had to be careful?

“Your head, idiot. You cracked it open like a melon.” Brienne pulled away for a second to wipe his eyes, and he gaped at her before realizing he must have spoken the words aloud. The sight of his face provoked a fresh round of sobs from her, despite her obvious attempts to stay calm and collected. “Nothing’s wrong with your stupid face.”

“Good.” Jaime said, feeling quite silly as he leaned into her touch. “I like it. You like it. We’re both happy with it.” He felt a little better now, a little steadier. “My-- my hand?”

“You fell on your right side.” Brienne said. “I-- the maester asked if you’d been having any trouble with your hand before-- before the Mountain, and I said yes. Because the hand is… well, you know.”

Jaime turned his head just slightly, cymbal crashes of pain ripping through his skull at the motion, to see his right hand laying limp at his side, the muscles jumping and pulsing beneath his skin as they usually did. His fingers, still devoid of feeling, twitched and bent, but the bruises already rising along his arm meant Jaime would be stuck in long sleeves for quite some time.

“And he said?” Jaime croaked.

“There’s nothing to be done about it.” Brienne bowed her head, as if she were in mourning. “At least not on short notice, like this.”

“That’s fine.” Jaime said. “I’m quite used to it anyhow.” He flashed Brienne a smile. “Shall we go sit again? If my father called us, it must be important.”

“Don’t strain yourself, Jaime.” It sounded like an order, a command, something a fellow knight on the battlefield would say with confidence, with conviction. Brienne had perfected that aspect of knighthood. “Sleep now. I’ll wake you for the evening meal, and then we can see about tomorrow.”

“Will you-- will you stay with me?” Jaime asked weakly. “I don’t want to be alone. Please?”

He was struck by the memory of himself crumpled on Cersei’s floor, bawling for anything resembling comfort, and it brought him to tears even now, so many years later. Except this time, Brienne was there, warm, loving Brienne, who held him through it and told him he had her now.

How quickly things had changed for the better. Maybe his father had done him a favor -- he couldn’t imagine continuing to fight in the rest of the tournament knowing that he was missing out on this.

* * *

Jaime didn’t know when he had started feeling more at home out of his armor than in it, but now, seated beside Brienne, he felt perfectly content, even if the bandage on his head itched an awful lot. The maester had found a brace for his hand that worked wonders at relieving the pain in his wrist, though there was no solution for his fingers as of yet. They continued their strange, uncoordinated dance, but it was easily ignored. Brienne held his right hand near constantly, to help avoid detection, and he was endlessly thankful. How was it she seemed to know just as quickly as he did what he needed or wanted from her?

The Septon had been right, when he’d bound them for eternity. Since that moment, they’d been one heart and one soul, complete only when together. The only issue with that was that every time he even thought about how he felt, Brienne was fussing over him like a mother might have, had he known what that felt like at all. And so she was now, leaning in close to ask him if his head was too sore, if the back pain that had reared its head last night was manageable.

“I’m okay.” He whispered, patting the hand that held his with his left, and one of the grandmothers seated near them immediately began telling everyone how cute they were. As long as it wasn’t Aunt Genna -- she would never let him live down being cute in public. “I’ll ask the Maester for more of, uh, whatever he’s giving me for the pain, that, later. I’m fine now.”

“If you’re sure.” Brienne said, before squeezing his right hand gently. It ached, but distantly -- he was reminded of seeing the shore of Tarth from the deck of a boat lifetimes ago, his pain was barely felt through the cloud of whatever the maesters had given him. “Ask if you need anything.” She looked back at the tourney field, where no Clegane flags flew -- both Gregor and Sandor had been sent packing. “I’ll be right here beside you.”

“Thank you.” Jaime said hoarsely. “For all you’ve done for me.” She smiled, though her eyes remained fixed on the knights assembling by the lists. It turned her eyes soft and gentle, the blue of the sky after a thunderstorm. “You give so much of yourself for me. You have since the day we met.”

Tywin cast them a frosty look and Jaime leaned away from Brienne, sitting so straight in his chair that his injured back screamed in agony. Only then did Tywin seem satisfied, his eyes turning toward the field again, a smirk on his thin lips. Brienne was furious, glaring daggers at her good-father as she balanced on the edge of her seat in an effort to be as close to Jaime as possible. She saw how he struggled to breathe, saw the fog of pain in his eyes and the slackness of his jaw, and hissed under her breath.

“Ignore him.” She said fiercely, as if it were that easy. “He may have matched you with Clegane, but he has no power over you now. Not when everyone is watching him.”

“Would that that were true.” Jaime said softly, and Brienne’s eyes burned when they regarded him. “It would be so easy to orchestrate another accident.” His heart wailed at the thought, and he shifted closer to her, resting his head on the broad line of her shoulder. “He has power over me always. So long as we both live, he will keep me treading water for his amusement.”

It was easier to speak when he didn’t have to look at her, didn’t have to see her disappointment. She hadn’t married for weakness. She had entered this union thinking she would marry a knight, strong, brave, and undefeatable. She had agreed to marry the Lion of Lannister, not Jaime, a coward whose father had nearly killed him for daring to be anything but perfect. Brienne didn’t need extra baggage. Life had given her plenty of dead weight to carry. And yet here he was, grabbing onto her like a leech, draining her strength so that he might call it his own.

“Does he love you?” Her words were barely audible, her voice nothing more than a soft, heartbroken suggestion.

“There has been no love in Casterly Rock since my mother died.” Jaime said, eyes downcast. “They say all the goodness in him burned with her body.”

He remembered nothing of his mother beyond what he’d been told, and nothing he knew came from Tywin, who preferred silence to acknowledging his children. He had always felt as if Tywin was hoarding Joanna Lannister to himself, as if denying his children their mother’s memory was his way of keeping them as loyal as dogs, begging for scraps at his feet. His father had never acknowledged that Jaime, Cersei, and Tyrion had lost a mother just as he’d lost a wife -- their loss was secondary, hardly important enough to note.

Jaime wondered if Tywin even thought of them as Joanna’s children, or if he just considered them means to his own ends.

Using Jaime, he kept the Rock in the family for another generation. Using Cersei, he made designs on the throne. Tyrion was free to do as he wished, so long as he did not marry too far beneath his name and kept his mouth shut in Tywin’s presence. They were never children, had never been allowed to be. From birth, or perhaps from their mother’s death, they had all been pieces in Tywin’s game of cyvasse with the universe, sacrifices ready and willing to die for a love they had never been given.

It was no wonder that Cersei had learned to use others as her father did -- it was the only lesson he offered. Aunt Genna had always said Jaime had his mother’s heart and stomach -- both far too idealistic and reluctant to do harm to play the game of thrones like Cersei and Tywin did, with ruthless brutality and no care for the safety and happiness of others. He had done no evil in Cersei’s name yet, in this world, but the weight of it still hung heavy around his neck, ready to drown him.

“My father always says that how a person grieves is proof of their mettle.” Brienne said softly. “That how they treat those around them while suffering speaks of their honor. Or lack thereof.” She swallowed hard, stroking a hand over the bandage on Jaime’s head. “From what you have said, it sounds as if my good-father has none.”

“We should not speak of him here.” Jaime said. “Who knows how many ears are listening?” He spotted young Petyr Baelish staring rather intently at them and scowled, causing the boy to nearly jump out of his boots. “So he isn’t too busy mooning after Catelyn Tully to bother us, is he? I’ll give him something else to think about.”

“Is the pain so bad?” Brienne saw through to the core of him so very easily. “We can retire to our rooms. They would surely allow it, you being as ill as you are.”

Jaime smiled weakly. So she still believed they had choices. “It is not so bad, lady wife. Come, another joust is beginning.”

* * *

When the door to their bedroom closed behind them, Brienne transformed from sweet, smiling wife to a hissing, spitting demon. Jaime would’ve been terrified had she been angry at him.

But she wasn’t -- her eyes were soft with sympathy for him, her careful caresses of his skin feather light. He knew why she was angry. Tywin had no shortage of disapproving glances at them for how close they sat together, how they were speaking during the matches and how they seemed to care nothing for the spectacle he’d put on in their honor. With each belabored sigh and pointed glare, Brienne had ground her teeth more and more aggressively, swallowing back thousands of angry retorts that would have seen her publicly shamed.

“Did he ever hurt you?” She asked, after her silent tirade had gone on for what felt like hours. She approached him like a panther prowling in the night, razor sharp claws ready to tear her prey to pieces. “Is he-- Jaime, did he-- Is he the one that hurt your hand?”

She took him into her arms, a hand at the back of his head guiding it down to her shoulder gently but firmly. She could not have said it where others could overhear them, but here, she was making it known quite clearly -- she would protect him from whatever came his way, whoever sought to hurt him.

Even if it was his father.

“He didn’t. Not my hand.” The words tumbled from his mouth awkwardly, catching on his teeth like corn kernels. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Brienne, please. We’ll speak of him later.”

“He sent Ser Gregor to kill you, Jaime.” Something wet dripped down his nose, and he realized she was crying. “He sent him to kill you and you aren’t even surprised. ‘Not my hand’, you say, but there are plenty of other things he seems to have hurt.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jaime asked. “I am fine, Brienne--”

“You don’t see how scared you look, when he looks at you. You don’t see how hurt you look. I do.” Brienne trembled around him and he clung as tightly as he could to her, gasping for breath. Her weathered, callused hands stroked along his spine, trails of warmth that just barely held his focus as the world melted into a blur of colors and shapes, fear kicking his heartbeat into high gear. “He and Cersei, they both took whatever they wanted from you. And you had no idea how to stop them. No one-- no one ever told you you could say no. Gods above, Jaime, this has been your whole life.”

“Brienne, please--”

“I saw the way she looked at you, at our wedding, at our betrothal. I saw the way she hated you. That’s-- that’s all you’ve known. Of course you latched on to me, of course anything I give, you’ll take.” Brienne rocked him against her like an infant as he began to shake. “You asked me to use you for whatever I needed, on our wedding night. Like you were a tool in my hands. Like you didn’t deserve any consideration. Jaime, that’s not-- that’s not--” She kissed the top of his head once, then again, then again, like she couldn’t stop. “You are more than what they made you, Jaime. You are more than you believe.”

Jaime was speechless, could do little more than grip Brienne’s gown tighter in his fists, and she held him tighter for it, her arms strong against his back. How could she say that? How could she understand him so thoroughly, ignore the sins that had stained his hands bloody red, and see him as redeemable?

“The Lion of Lannister may be injured, but he is still whole.” She raised his right hand to her lips, as she had on their wedding night, kissed each knuckle carefully. “He still has his honor, his good heart, his pride. So much of it that he will protect those who do him harm. He will drown them in kindness at his own expense.” The backs of his calves hit the end of their bed and he fell back against it, seeing nothing but Brienne above him. “My Lion of Lannister. The greatest knight I will ever know.”

“But I lost.” Jaime said, so dangerously close to losing himself in her eyes. Her forearms blocked out his peripheral vision, her face hovering above his. “Clegane unseated me.” His breath caught in his throat as Brienne pushed his sleeve back to reveal the bruised mess of his right wrist before peppering it with kisses. “Brienne, you--”

“You lived.” Brienne said, pressing a finger to his lips. He blinked up at her with glassy eyes, drowning under the weight of her love, her concern. “You lived and you will have your revenge. And is that not victory enough?”

“Will you seek it for me?” Jaime asked, shy as a maiden. “If-- If I cannot fight, will you fight for me? If I cannot be your Lion of Lannister, will you be mine?” Their bodies were separated only by the flimsy layers of clothes between them, the weight of her going straight to his head. “I know nothing of revenge, Brienne. I do not know how to want it.”

“Then I will want it for you.” Brienne declared, as if it were so simple. “I will want it for you and you will want it through me.” She looked hungry, every inch the huntress she might have been on Tarth before she took up the sword. “Misfortune befalls everyone. The world is not kind. People have important things taken from them all the time. Those that survive bear it with grace.” She ran a hand through his hair and he leaned back into her touch, his eyes slipping closed. “And you have shown nothing but grace, lord husband.”

“I was my sword hand.” Jaime’s voice quavered. He had said these words, and so had she, in the forest as the Bloody Mummers let his hand rot, tied around his neck. As he begged for death to release him. He hadn’t known that surviving that dastardly injustice would bring him here, to this moment, to these same words spoken in love and not disgust. “My sword hand, Brienne.”

He grieved the loss as he never had before, tears pricking at his eyes, and she grieved along with him. They traded clumsy kisses as their tears mingled on their cheeks, the fingers of her right hand hand weaving into those of his left, their hearts screaming as one.

“You are more than your sword hand.” Brienne whispered into his lips, and he swallowed her words eagerly, as if taking them within him would make them ring true. “You always have been. Others may not see your heart, Jaime, but I do.”

“Who else-- who else do I need?” Jaime gripped her hand tighter before bringing it to the laces of his shirt, eyes fixed on hers. She undid the knot on instinct before pausing. “Just you, Brienne.” He said, as she undressed him carefully, reverently, like each inch of new skin revealed was a gift from the Seven. “Only you.”

* * *

“Jaime.” Cersei sounded bereft, wounded, and Jaime knew better than to fall for her games again. “I’ve been trying to see you, but they wouldn’t let me in.”

“I told them to keep you out.” Jaime said. Brienne had always made him bold and thinking of her now had him feeling the desire to see him thrive that had consumed her so the night before. “I needed to think.”

“About what? Your wife?” Cersei’s words cut like razors. “Honestly, Jaime, we’re still twins. Still the same person, still of the same flesh. And you deny me? When we’re to be separated forever so soon?” False tears brimmed in her eyes and he wanted to laugh in her face, but held himself in check. “When I am in King’s Landing for good, when I am Queen, I will not be able to come home so easily. And when I am here, you tell the servants to keep me away. Your own sister. How cruel has your wife made you?”

“Not cruel.” Jaime growled. “Smarter. I understand both appear the same to you.”

“I can tell when you’re lying to me.” Cersei’s haughty expression looked pathetic in the daylight. He couldn’t believe how he hadn’t seen it, even at this age, even as enthralled by her as he had been. “You’re my twin, Jaime. We came into this world together. I know when you’re lying.”

“There are no consequences to hiding things from you. I have nothing to gain and nothing to lose.” Jaime said. “Why would I lie to you when I don’t stand to benefit?”

“I would never even consider lying to you. She’s corrupted my sweet brother, that witch--”

“She’s done more for me in two days than you have our whole life.” Jaime hissed. “Speak ill of her and I will make sure Rhaegar learns things about you that he will never forget.”

“I only wanted to find out if you were feeling better.” She pouted, changing her tune as easily as donning a new set of clothes. “You’re overreacting, threatening Rhaegar and I… that could be understood as treason, if the Prince were to hear it from trusted mouths.”

“You speak as if you are wed to Rhaegar and the Throne already, sister.” Jaime said coldly. If not him, then next Aerys would reach for Cersei -- Tywin had already made the mistake of betrothing her to Rhaegar, and now, Cersei would be given everything she’d ever dreamed of as Princess but be spared the nightmares of Jaime’s stint on the Kingsguard. Whether he was happy or sad for her meant nothing to the Throne -- it sought blood, and cared not for whose it was. “What need would you have for me then?”

“I need my brother to be healthy and happy.” She said, acting affronted. “How dare you insinuate that this is all about power?”

“You don’t need your brother. You need a loyal knight. You want to know if I can still fight.”

The shocked look on her face spoke volumes. He had called her what she was -- selfish -- and she was so blindsided that she had no response.

“I don’t know if I can. If I ever will again. And if I do? It will not be for you.” Jaime’s defiance had always gotten him in trouble as a child, but now it served him well. “If I take up my sword again, it will be for Brienne, in her service. Keep your Rhaegar and your Throne. I want none of it.”

“You seem so sure that I will have both.” Cersei sneered. “Will the Lord of the Rock not bend the knee to his future queen?”

“I won’t bend the knee to my sister.” Jaime glared at her. “If my sister is queen, I will cross that bridge when I reach it.”

“You said if.” Cersei said, sounding rather lost for a moment. “Not when.”

“I said if.” Jaime said. The words tasted sweeter than honey. “Not when.”

* * *

“We seem to meet always when I am leaving.” Lord Selwyn tugged on an ancient, weathered pair of leather boots. “Sit.” He patted the wooden bench he sat on, a smile on his face. “Brienne sent you, did she not?”

“She said we should speak.” Something about his good-father brought an incredible nervousness out of Jaime. He had always been told, all his life, that he was charming and that everyone would fall for him easily. Though it had often been the case, in front of Selwyn, he felt like a child playing at a man’s responsibility. He had only felt more insecure since the tournament, the slow path his body was taking toward healing only denting his self-esteem further. “That we had something to discuss.”

“Aye, so she did.” Selwyn shook his head, looping an arm around Jaime’s shoulders. His fingers curled around Jaime’s left shoulder, and gently pulled him closer while Jaime blinked up at him like a fawn learning to walk for the first time, unsteady and unsure how to proceed. “If you don’t mind, Ser Jaime, I’d like to discuss the tournament.”

Jaime stiffened under Selwyn’s gaze, shrinking down on himself.

“My daughter says it was no accident, what Clegane did to you.” He said softly. He looked so like Brienne in that moment, his brow knitting in the exact same way hers did, the crooked set of his jaw so familiar because Jaime had seen it so often on Brienne’s face. “She says it was ordered.” His thin lips curled in disgust, and Jaime flinched like he’d been hit, Selwyn’s revulsion evaporating instantly. “Ser Jaime, what is it?”

“It’s nothing.” Jaime said, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched forward. “It was. Ordered.” He laced his fingers together, leaning forward as if to shelter his hands from Selwyn’s gaze. “My father wanted me humiliated. For-- for daring to want something for myself.” He met Selwyn’s eyes for only a second, but was floored by the ocean of sadness he saw there. “Brienne says-- she says he would’ve been more-- more careful, if some part of him hadn’t wanted me dead. Father had no love for Tyrion, from the first time he laid eyes on him, because he dared not to be perfect. Now I am no longer perfect either. At least Tyrion is smart. He will do better with the Rock as I did. With me dead, he no longer has to honor any agreements made in my name, and can focus on Cersei. The way he’s always wanted.”

“She told me of your sword hand.” Selwyn stroked Jaime’s shoulder gently. “Of how it hurts you. It is an awful loss, but not one that must define you.” Jaime understood how Tarth remained in his thrall -- the smallfolk must love him, his careful choice of words, his sweet encouragements. “She worries you chose her only because you are broken. Is that true?”

“No.” Jaime said, determination bright in his eyes. “I chose her because I thought I could love her most, of any woman in Westeros.”

Selwyn’s proud smile was proof that he’d answered correctly.

“And can you live without your knighthood, should it prove too difficult to wield a sword?” Selwyn asked. “Can you give my daughter the life she deserves despite that?”

“She will be the Lion of Lannister in my stead.” Jaime said. “She is-- she is singularly brave, far too skilled with the sword for me to measure up to. I cannot fathom how such talent could be allowed to be wasted simply because of tradition, of how things have been done until now.” Selwyn beamed with pride. “I won’t let him hurt her. He can do whatever he wants to me. He can kill me, he can ruin me. I won’t let him lay a hand on Brienne.”

“She says you are kind to her. That you have not once insulted her looks or her ambitions. I would not have expected that from a Lannister.”

“I would not have either.” Jaime said honestly. He had done plenty of that himself, in their first try at things.

He’d called her ugly and mannish in another life, when they’d truly met for the first time, just to see her sweat, just to remind himself that he still had some vestiges of power in his hands. And then she’d cared for him, cleaned him when he was sick, and seen value in him when he lost his sword hand in her name. She’d become a friend, and then more than that, and he’d basked in the light of her love, claimed it and owned it until the shadows had crept in and stolen him away. He knew better here simply because he’d made all the mistakes already.

“She is my wife.” Jaime said. “I am honor bound to see her dreams to fruition, as much as I can.”

“And what of your dreams, Ser Jaime?” Selwyn asked. “Is my daughter extending the same courtesy to you?”

“I don’t have dreams.” Jaime admitted nervously. “I have the Rock. I have a kind and patient wife who-- who does not hate me for who I am, for the family I was born into, for the lengths to which they are willing to go. My good-father seems at least somewhat content with me.” He looked up at Selwyn, smiling sheepishly. “Asking for anything more would be selfish.”

“If my daughter asks more of you, you should ask exactly as much from her.” Selwyn nudged him gently. “Marriage is about give and take.”

“I know little of my parents’ marriage.” Jaime said. “Brienne seems to know where things should lead. So I follow her.”

“You are a better man than you think, Ser Jaime.” Selwyn said. “My daughter is lucky to have found you and so am I. I should only hope that you will feel as welcome on Tarth as my daughter does at Casterly Rock.”

“I wish I had something better to give her.” Jaime mumbled. Casterly Rock was a museum to a family that existed only in the minds of others, a monument to the importance of public image. “I wish I had a real home to give her. Like you do.”

“Homes can be made anywhere, so long as the people there care.” Selwyn said slowly, his watery eyes slowly sweeping over Jaime, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “All I ask is that you do right by her, whatever that means to you.”

“I don’t know if anyone can be happy here.” Jaime wrapped his arms tight around his torso. “I will do my best to make sure she is.”

“I’m sorry.” Selwyn said. “Love often makes monsters of those who lose it. Some can rise above it. Some lose themselves trying.” He pulled Jaime into a tight embrace. “You and your brother are always welcome on Tarth, should you need… to be anywhere but here.”

“Thank you.” Jaime laid his head on Selwyn’s shoulder, exhausted. “To extend such an offer is no small kindness.”

“We are family now, Jaime.” Selwyn said. “What kind of man would I be if I did not show kindness to my family?”

* * *

The nights and days blended together, Brienne the only constant, and Jaime began to walk with more ease, his hips looser and his legs obeying him with the same grace that they had before the Mountain had knocked him from his horse. Brienne beamed with joy at every flicker of progress, whether permanent or temporary, and celebrated each milestone with him like it was the end of a war, something for the history books. They walked to the beach most afternoons, Tyrion racing ahead of them, to explore the caves, and when Brienne carved her name into the wall where Tyrion and Jaime had played at swordplay, Jaime could do nothing but smile.

She felt like home. Her father had worried about her alone in Casterly Rock, but she had claimed Jaime as her own in marriage and Tyrion as hers in friendship, and they were company enough to survive the Rock (or at least Jaime thought so). She loved Tyrion like her own brother, loved Jaime like no one had ever thought to love him before. She smiled at him from beneath wild, messy blond hair that she’d hacked short just days after all the nobles had left, to the horror of the servants and Lannister aunts and uncles that cluttered the hallways, and Jaime had laughed. Suddenly, she had looked like the Brienne he’d known, the Brienne he’d traveled with, and it had made the promise of their life together seem so much more real.

She smiled at him as if he were something precious, held him gently like he was made of glass, and he feared he might melt beneath her hands from the exquisite pleasure of it. Neither Cersei nor Tywin had ever shown him a shred of tenderness and Brienne suffused his days and nights with little, soft kindness, strung along the thread of his life like little glass beads, perfectly poised to catch the sunlight. He owed her something beautiful, owed her some recompense for her unending commitment to his happiness.

He spoke to the armorer while she was writing a letter to her father, handing him hastily scrawled notes, peppered with misspellings, to refer to if he ever managed to solve the mystery of Jaime’s barely legible handwriting, and promised to pay any sum to have it rushed. His gift was ready sooner than he’d expected and he felt lightheaded with joy at the thought of how Brienne’s eyes would flash with glee when she saw it, how she’d get that quiet look of awe that made his heart beat faster in his chest. He pushed her along before him to the armory, his hands covering her eyes, grinning like a fool, glancing around her to avoid bumping into corners or tripping over Tyrion, who followed at Brienne’s heels, eager to see her reaction.

When they reached their bedroom, he tapped her shoulder softly. “Cover your own eyes, I should like to see your face when you see this.” She slid her hands under his and for a second, he wondered if he could tear his own away.

“If this is an animal or a dress, I will never forgive you.”

“I have committed no sin.” Jaime laughed. “It is not an animal, nor is it a dress.”

“Is it jewellery?”

“That would be Tyrion’s gift, not mine.” Jaime smirked.

“I would pick something nice.” Tyrion said proudly. “Jaime would bring you handcuffs and call them bracelets.”

“Flowers?”

“I would not have made you walk so far for flowers, Brienne. Have some faith in me.” Jaime laughed. “Guess again.”

“A new husband?”

“One would hope.” Tyrion sighed. “Unfortunately, you’re sworn to Jaime till one of you dies. Though I could be convinced to get you a murder as a nameday present…”

“Lannisters.” Brienne muttered under her breath, like it was a curse word.

“You are as much of a Lannister as we are now, dear sister.” Tyrion chirped cheerfully. “Any grudge you hold against Lannisters, you hold against yourself.”

“Spare us the lecture, Tyrion.” Jaime groaned. “I want her to guess the present!”

“Can I look?” Brienne asked, and Jaime nodded before realizing she could not see him.

“Yes, yes.” He said, mouth dry in anticipation. “Look.”

Brienne pulled her hands away from her eyes so slowly that Jaime nearly screamed at her to move faster, and her jaw went slack when she saw the suit of armor, the red sheen of the plate, the embossed lion head on the breastplate. A suit of armor more ceremonial than functional, an exact double to Jaime’s own.

“Armor fit for the Lioness of Lannister.” Jaime said around the lump in his throat, crossing his arms as if he might appear more intimidating for it. “There’s another set more serviceable for practice being made, but--”

Brienne swept him up into her arms, squeezing him so tight he thought he might implode.

“My measurements.” She babbled, unable to tear her eyes away from the armor so much that Jaime wriggled free of her grasp, pushing her toward it. “How did you know?”

She ran her hand along the pauldrons, each of which bore a lion head in the center of a wheel of suns and moons, all in gold. The design of the pauldrons was the only difference between his armor and hers, at least for now -- the armorer’s work was so elegant that Jaime thought combining the sigils of House Tarth and House Lannister might be something he would also ask for, when he was well enough to fight again.

“I guessed.” Jaime said, and Brienne’s eyes glittered with surprise.

“He’s been leering at you enough to make an informed guess.” Tyrion cut in. “That’s what my brother means to say.”

“Tyrion, leave!” Jaime hollered and Tyrion burst into laughter, beating his fists against his thighs in glee.

Brienne blushed, opening her mouth to deliver some witty, cutting retort (probably about how Jaime hadn’t had time to leer at her last night, if he hazarded a guess), but then she saw Tyrion, truly, as if she hadn’t noticed how young he was before, and her jaw snapped shut. Her eyes held the promise of a discussion later, one that might not be entirely unpleasant, and Jaime found his stomach full to bursting with butterflies at the thought of it.

“It’s beautiful, Jaime.” She beamed at him, cheeks still stained red. “I love it. It’s so thoughtful.”

“Nothing but the best for you.” Jaime smiled back, and when she reached out for his hand, he threw himself at her instead, letting her crush him against her chest. “Lannister colors for Lady Lannister. So she might take her husband with her, wherever she goes, even if he should not be by her side.”

Brienne looked enraptured, staring at Jaime like he had just made a gift of the world to her. To anyone else in the world, it was only a suit of armor -- to Brienne, it would mean more. She would understand that he was giving her her freedom. She would understand that he meant to give her everything she’d ever wanted in the form of the suit of armor, and it was clear, by the shaky smile painting itself across his face, that she did.

“I’m leaving!” Tyrion declared, before stomping out of their bedchamber, sighing loudly all the while. Brienne’s chest vibrated with laughter. “No one cares about me in this family!”

“It’s just as well.” Jaime joked. “If we cared about him any more, he’d be unbearable.” He nuzzled Brienne’s neck, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now what was that about me leering at you?”

One of her hands trailed up the back of his neck to his hair, softly stroking his scalp. “Oh.” She said, as if she’d forgotten it had been spoken of at all. “Nothing.” She kissed the scar on his forehead from his fall. “I just-- I should hope my husband is looking at me for the right reasons.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate?” Jaime grinned. “I have no audiences scheduled for the remainder of the day. The worst interruption we could have is Tyrion, and even then, a locked door will slow him down significantly.”

Brienne laughed. “I should like to try out my armor, so leave some time for that.”

“And dinner.” Jaime said thoughtfully. “I should like to eat dinner.”

“Lovely priorities.” Brienne stuck her tongue out at him. “Though I should be glad that at least one of them is me.”

“All of them are you.” Jaime said reverently. “In some way or the other.”

“I do not want you treating me like I am perfect.” Brienne said. “I am not. I am just as flawed as you, or any other person. All of your priorities are me, you said. Leave some space in your life for yourself, Jaime.” She tugged a hand through a tangle of hair so roughly that Jaime winced. She soothed the hurt away with another kiss to the top of his head, and something churned away angrily in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t putting her on a pedestal, was he? He was simply telling her what he felt. Hadn’t she asked? “I do not need gifts or wooing or-- whatever this was. I am your wife, Jaime. I will be here no matter what.”

“I did it because I want you to have what you want. You-- you stayed. You did that for me. Now, now I need to give you what you want. The knighthood. I-- I want you to have it.” Jaime spluttered, feeling rather warm all of a sudden. “The armor was just-- just to help you, that’s all.” His eyes burned, and he wiped the tears away before they could fall, his lip trembling. “I’m not trying to-- I’m not trying anything.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Brienne said softly. “I just wanted to be sure. No, don’t cry.” She rubbed his back as the tears continued to fall unbidden, whether from being overwhelmed by the depth of her compassion for him or some age old sadness, he did not know. “I don’t want you to feel like-- like you have to keep me interested. Like you have to give me things I want to make this… worth my while.”

“I can’t do anything right.” Jaime spat. “I-- You shouldn’t have even had to worry about this, and yet, you are. This was meant to show you I supported you, not make you worry that I felt-- that I might be--” He hiccuped, a wet choking sound. It felt as if an anvil had taken up residence within his chest, crushing his lungs. “It’s only been weeks and I’ve already ruined our marriage. Typical.”

“I love it, Jaime. I love that you thought of what I wanted. I love that you wanted to be sure it was exactly how I would like it.” Brienne tipped his chin up so he was forced to meet her eyes. “I don’t always know what to say. Sometimes I will hurt you by accident, like I did now, while trying to ensure that you aren’t falling into old habits with me. Habits I have no intention of indulging.”

Again, she knew him better than he knew himself. Was that not what he’d spent years doing, with Cersei and his father? Desperate for their attention, for their affection, for their approval, he’d bartered with his own heart as currency, cutting pieces away to gift to them with shaking, fearful hands in the hopes that it would buy loyalty. It never had. All Brienne had wanted was to be sure that he wasn’t doing the same for her. Why was he crying so if he knew she was doing right by him?

Was it because he couldn’t seem to do the same for her? Was it because she’d called herself as flawed as him when he’d died thrice for his sins, for the horrible, terrible things he’d done and been proud of? None of her flaws were real, every inch of them imagined.

“You only want the best for me, I know.” He’d said those words to Cersei so many times, but he knew them to be different, with Brienne. Meant differently, shaped differently. Brienne genuinely wanted good things for him.Unlike Cersei, who’d said those words in case others overheard her. She’d wanted him to suffer alongside her, to feel worthless and powerless under Tywin’s iron fist simply because she couldn’t acknowledge she did. “I trust you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I trust you with my life. I do.”

“You would die for me.” Brienne said, sounding quite scared by the words she’d said. “I don’t know that I deserve that loyalty.”

“You deserve the world. And that’s not meant in-- in a bad way. I’m not saying that because of Cersei or my father or anyone. It’s because--” Jaime frowned. “Your father told me that-- that you’re afraid that I’m only-- that I only married you because of my hand.” He looked up at her, adoration clear in his eyes. “I would have married you regardless. You are-- you are so smart, so determined. Now, now I feel like-- like I might deserve you someday. With both hands, I wouldn’t have.”

“Why do you say that?” Brienne asked, brushing his hair away from his forehead to kiss the scar again.

“That Jaime was Cersei’s pawn. She chose what he ate, what he wore, how he acted. Whatever orders she gave, he followed without question. He was her mirror, her other half.” The Jaime he had been before the Mummers felt like another person entirely, so blind to his own circumstances, so hungry for Cersei’s validation. “It took-- it took losing my sword hand to see myself as anything other than the enforcer of her will. It took you for me to see myself as someone who could be loved.” He bunched up the fabric of her shirt in his fist to keep her close. “I came into the world holding her ankle. She led me here. But that doesn’t mean I have to keep following her. That doesn’t mean I have to keep following anyone.”

“And so the armor was because…”

“Because I want to be the kind of husband you deserve. I told you that all the love in Casterly Rock died with my mother. I don’t want that to be true. And part of love, part of real love, is supporting you in what you want.” He looked up at her, smiling. “Your father told me that. That I should make sure you felt at home here. That we could build a home anywhere if we tried hard enough.”

“Do you really think that we can feel at home here?” Brienne asked, cupping his cheek. “That I can make this my home?”

“The Lioness of Lannister can.” Jaime said, and Brienne glanced over at the suit of armor again, as if discovering her present all over again. “And I would be honored to help her along the way.”

“I love it, Jaime.” She said, her grip on him tightening, like she was worried he might just melt away. “I love you, Jaime.”

“I love you too.” Jaime kissed her cheek, if it could even be called a kiss, a mere brush of lips against Brienne’s skin, over before it began. “I’ll tell the master-at-arms he’ll have a standing appointment with you. I don’t know what they taught you on Tarth, but it will be good to pick up another style, and--”

“I want to learn from you.” Brienne said. “I-- I want to know what my husband knows. What he’s learned. You said you want me to fight for you, to fight alongside you, and for that, I need to learn how you fight.”

“That can be arranged.” Jaime smiled before kissing her again, and this time, there was no doubt about what to call it. “You will be the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Brienne. I swear it upon my wife’s honor, as I have very little.”

Brienne scoffed. “You must love this wife of yours.”

“I do.” Jaime said. “I think some part of me always has.”

* * *

Casterly Rock emptied slowly, like a leaking pipe, pouring people out onto the Kingsroad. The bannermen packed up and left first, the nobles who had travelled long distances lingering like ghosts until they too found their hearts yearning for home. Jaime said goodbye to each and every one, shaking hands, greasing palms, and playing every inch of the dutiful lordling with ease. He’d been raised for it, and while he’d forgotten that often in other lives, in this one, it was his redemption.

He thought of Ned Stark often, the way he had lead his household firmly but with love, and wondered if he, given the chance, could do the same. Here he was, his chance firmly grasped with both hands, ready to take a leap of faith toward his future self. If he proved himself worthy in the coming months and years, his father would hand over the reins to the Rock and install himself in King’s Landing as the Hand full time instead of riding back and forth.

As much as Jaime was loath to admit it, Tywin Lannister was growing old before his eyes, looking more fragile with each passing season.

It was well past time that Jaime took his place at the head of the family. Every one of them knew it. And the first task at his hand would be where Tyrion would foster. Luckily, Jaime knew exactly the place for him -- his good-father had already expressed an interest, and Tyrion would thrive outside the prison of Tywin’s too high expectations.

Tyrion deserved goodness -- appreciation for his strengths and kindness for his weaknesses. Jaime remembered all too well who his smiling brother had become in the first life they’d shared -- after he’d turned to drink for want of love and seen every hope he had of being valued crumble to dust. He remembered the ugly words Tyrion had wielded like weapons, the way he had probed others’ insecurities like a maester checking a wound for infection.

Jaime wanted a better life for Tyrion, just as he had made this life kinder on himself, and perhaps some time on Tarth could give Tyrion that.

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Brienne’s voice made his heart jump into his throat, and he turned around, possessed by a wave of cheerfulness that lit him up from the inside, to see her in clothes she’d very obviously nabbed from his wardrobe. They were very nearly the same size, though he didn’t doubt that she’d outgrow him soon -- then it’d be his turn to take her things, which he relished the thought of greatly. “What’s on your mind?”

“You.” Jaime smiled. “No, Tyrion. Father’s mentioned sending him out to foster soon. Says he’s growing too old for his care to be left to nursemaids and lesser Lannisters.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. He loved her so much.

“I thought we might ask your father. They’ve taken a liking to each other.” Brienne’s smile grew ten sizes and Jaime knew he’d made the right choice. “Tyrion deserves to leave here. To-- to find himself somewhere nice.”

She closed the distance between them, looking unbearably proud.

Jaime tore his eyes away from her, his stomach roiling.

Every reminder that he’d aired his family’s deepest, darkest skeletons to his wife felt worse than the last, and only reminded him that there were more secrets he was keeping, secrets Brienne would never believe. Would she call him a madman if he said he’d died in her arms, begging her to wed them before it was too late? Would she laugh in his face if he said he’d left her once and it had ended in his death?

“He does deserve to be out from under your father’s thumb.” Brienne said. “And so do you.”

“Jealousy is not becoming of Lannisters.” Jaime grumbled. “He who has everything need not look at the riches of others.”

“To be fair, wealth in love far outweighs wealth in money.” Brienne shot him a sad smile. “It is difficult to make the right choice for others when no such kindness was done for you.”

“I got a greater reward for all that suffering.” Jaime took her hand. Weeks after the tournament, his back still pained him more days than not, and when it did, he hobbled around Casterly Rock like he was older than his father, grabbing onto the walls and furniture where he could. Now, he had Brienne’s hand to hold, a sweeter mercy than anything else in the world.

“I am not a prize to be won.” Brienne said sharply, though there was a fondness in her eyes that Jaime treasured.

“I was not speaking of you, lady wife.” Jaime winked. “Though it is reassuring that you think I have won you.”

“You have winning to do yet.” Brienne pushed him playfully, then shrieked in surprise when he lost his balance, tumbling rather theatrically to the stone floor of the corridor. “Jaime!”

“I’m fine.” Jaime rose to his feet gingerly. “Warrior keep me, I think horses are out of the question for some more time, at least.”

“You need to be more careful.” Brienne admonished him with the same gentleness that she employed in all aspects of their life together. “You push yourself too far and then you complain of consequences like you did not incur them yourself.”

“I cannot be seen dishonoring the great legacy of House Lannister by daring to have flaws, Lady Brienne. That would be unsightly. Monstrous, even.”

Brienne let out a snort that nearly shook the heavens.

“Death would be preferable.” Jaime said, feigning desolation, until she headbutted him in the shoulder. “I suppose I shall die of such a grievous wound. Lady Lannister, do keep my brother from ruining the family name.”

“I won’t.” Brienne grinned.

“What a wife.” Jaime laughed. “You truly deny me nothing.”

“What a husband.” Brienne smiled. “You ask for nothing I do not want to give.”

* * *

Jaime smelled burning before anything else, the acrid smell choking him, and ran toward their rooms, fear slowing his movements far too much. He could hear Aerys’ voice in his head (burn them all, burn them all, burn them all) and wondered -- is this how this fairytale was to end? In a fire again, with Casterly Rock, old, unconquered, and ancient, collapsing around him like the Red Keep?

Would he be so lucky as to die in the arms of the woman he truly loved this time around? Was that the closest he would get to a happy ending?

He paused, breathless, in the doorway to his bedchamber, and nearly shat himself at the sight of Brienne poking at something in the fireplace with a grim expression on her face. She looked perfect, and the fire was contained to the fireplace and-- oh, her hair. She looked like the Brienne he remembered, her hair cut short like a boy’s, only a mere suggestion of straw blond in some places. His mouth was dry, and not just from the roaring heat of the fire.

“Oh.” He said dimly, recognizing how silly he sounded, and Brienne looked over her shoulder at him, shock and vindication warring on her face.

Longer hair had softened her features, the soft, delicate curls at the end of her hair drawing attention away from the sharp line of her jaw, the deep set of her eyes. He had found himself loving it because of the sheer fact of her existence, the proximity drugging him as surely as the milk of the poppy might, but now, now this was his Brienne, even if she had made their room smell downright awful.

“What is it?” She challenged, dropping the poker so she could place her hands on her hips.

“The smell, that’s all.” Jaime stammered.

“And?” Her eyes were hard as flint and Jaime wanted to jump into the depths of them like the cliff faces he and Tyrion had played on as children. “What of the smell?”

“Sometimes beauty comes at a price.” Jaime said softly, and there was her smile, bright as a shooting star, and his heart dropped into his toes, warming them so swiftly that he wondered if he might burn to ash at the sight of her.

* * *

“Must I carry buckets of water on my shoulders?” Brienne looked amused, her sweaty hair hanging lank over her forehead, wearing Jaime’s clothes again. Her cheeks were flushed red from exertion, the red blotches smearing down her neck toward her collarbones. Jaime found himself wanting desperately to know whether they stopped neatly at the neck of Brienne’s shirt or went lower still. “Is this what squiring is truly like? Or is my husband playing at being a fool?”

She was out of breath, but still smiling crookedly, her spirits higher than his had ever been while training so hard. If he hadn’t known it before, he would understand that this was her dream now, that she’d hungered for this opportunity like he had wanted the Kingsguard, before he knew what came with it.

“Your husband is a fool.” Jaime laughed. “What need is there to play at the truth?”

For all the grace she lacked outside the constraints of training, Brienne looked at home here, her long limbs as perfectly poised as a dancer’s. Every movement was smooth and purposeful, the same artistry he remembered from every time he’d seen her fight, against him, for him, and with him.

“You can’t know injustice until you’ve felt it, Brienne!” He called after her, as she began her descent downhill on the stone steps, moving faster than she had on her last pass. “If I treat you gently, I’m failing both of us!”

“Shut up, Jaime!” She called back to him, and he beamed like she had just called him beautiful. “I’m focusing on the task at hand! A skill you might do well to learn!”

“I can’t learn anything!” He yelled down and she looked over her shoulder at him quizzically. “The septa gave up on me when I was six!”

“Six?” She looked aghast.

“What are you standing there for?” Jaime banged the wooden sword he’d been testing his grip with against a rock. “Go, go, go!”

“I’m running as fast as I can!” She yelled, out of breath. “Keep your judgments to yourself, Lannister!”

“You run with your legs, not with your mouth, Lannister!” Jaime retorted. “You can’t do both at once!”

She paused, halfway up the stairs, clear blue eyes fixed on his, panting breaths wracking her frame. He was stricken by panic. What had he said to throw her off so? How had he upset her? What had he done wrong? He felt the familiar sharp pain in his chest, the claws of fear digging themselves into the heart of him through whatever flesh stood in their way, and before he knew it, she was standing before him, mostly full buckets of water dangling from the yoke across her broad shoulders. She looked like the spitting image of the Warrior, eyes like fire and stronger than an ox.

“We are both Lannisters, aren’t we?” She said softly, and he knocked the yoke from her shoulders in his effort to kiss her, the wooden buckets shattering against the ground.

* * *

“Fights are like dances.” Tyrion declared, popping a sweet into his mouth from his seat on the half-wall beside them. “It’s all choreography.”

“What do you know of fights?” Jaime scoffed, matching Brienne’s strikes easily. She tripped backward, falling into the mud, but sprang up again before he could even say the word “yield”, pushing him backwards so far he nearly stepped out of the ring he’d defined just hours before as the limit of the space they could use. “Brienne, honestly--”

“Why, Ser Jaime? Has no one bested you before?” Brienne teased, and it stung.

As much as Jaime knew wars were fought in minds as much as with bodies, he had never had any skill for the former, something that his father had despaired of often. And forcing him back out of the ring was a strategy Cersei and Tyrion would use as an introduction, an instinct, an opportunity to judge their opponent’s readiness. Jaime’s swordsmanship, even with his mangled right hand, was beyond compare, but he had never quite developed his siblings’ nose for getting their way.

“No.” He said, a little more coldly than he’d anticipated, and hacked at her wildly to rid the feeling from his bones, to force it out of him so it could no longer weigh heavy in his chest, freezing him from the inside. “I have always made sure to try my sword against those I know I can beat. I know my place in the order of things.”

Her face fell then, but she did not drop her sword, fury clear in her stormy eyes. She hadn’t expected cruelty from him, and Tyrion hopped down from the wall, landing awkwardly before running toward them, squeezing in between their bodies as if he hoped to keep them from fighting. Jaime stroked Tyrion’s hair with clumsy fingers in silence before shaking his head.

“Maybe we can do without the ring.” He said, meeting her eyes as he tried to look as apologetic as he could. “My-- my mind is elsewhere, I cannot-- I forgot where--” He rubbed his forehead.

“You are a sore loser.” Brienne said, and that lit the fire within him like nothing else could. “You make excuses for yourself because you didn’t think you had to pay attention to best me.” He hadn’t thought any of those things! But of course, she had to say them to make sure he would deny them to her the next time he had a chance. “So fight me truly, Ser Jaime. None of this ‘my mind is elsewhere’. Keep your mind here, and we’ll see which of us is the true knight in this household.”

“It’s Brienne.” Tyrion cut in. “It’s absolutely Brienne. I’m sorry, Jaime.”

“No need.” Jaime grinned, tossing his sword at her feet. It splashed mud onto Brienne’s hose. “It is Brienne. It absolutely is Brienne.”

* * *

“So I am your knight, am I?” Brienne asked, with a smile, as Jaime yawned, his head rested on her chest, drowsily blinking up at her. “I won our fight fairly.”

“So you did.” Jaime toyed with the laces of her shirt like a kitten might, and she craned her neck to kiss the top of his head. He tipped his chin up to look at her, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I have to have a reason?” She asked, bewildered, and he shrugged.

“You don’t. I was just wondering.” He wormed up her body so he could kiss her cheek, her arm snaking around his waist. “Why did you ask?”

“Because you asked.” Brienne said. “What was on your mind? When we fought?”

“You asked if anyone had bested me before.” He said softly, eyes downcast. “Many have. I don’t like being reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

“I’m the stupidest Lannister.” He said with ease, but startled when he saw the anger on her face. What was she trying to protect him from? Himself? “My sword was all I had.” He sighed. “It’s not worth discussing. Not worth bothering about now.” He rose to his knees, bleary eyed, tears brewing in his eyes. “I was just-- just frustrated, that’s all. That I couldn’t fight well, that I kept-- I kept missing things.”

“I won’t hold myself back for your comfort.” Brienne said, none too gently. “I won’t let you win because there’s no victory in that.”

“I don’t want you to.” Jaime said. “I just want to be a worthy opponent for you. I want-- I want to challenge you truly, to help you improve. Not to stand in your way.”

“You could never stand in my way.” Brienne reached out with tender, gentle hands, coaxing him back to her like she was luring a wild animal. “Why would you ever? I have only ever known you to be loyal, husband. The Lion of Lannister roars only for me, it seems.” Her hand slid into his hair and he closed his eyes, exhaling against her shoulder. “I have improved plenty more than I would have with a husband who cared not for what I wanted and wanted me to serve his own interests. And here you are, hurting yourself to feel like you deserve me. I never thought I would see such a thing, in all my days.”

“Why?” Jaime asked, confused.

“You have seen me. You married me despite my face. I know what people think of me.”

“Then I am not a person.” Jaime declared. “I see nothing I do not like.”

“What might you be then?” Brienne laughed. She looked at him with such love that he almost forgot the monster Cersei had molded him into. He had believed he could be better, when this had all began at Winterfell, and now it felt real, it felt achievable. “A dragon?”

“No, anything but that.” He winced.

“You would be a dog.” Brienne smiled. “Something fluffy and large. Friendly.”

“If I were a dog, I would lick your face.” Jaime said, before he was the unfortunate victim of an elbow to the face as Brienne flipped them over. “What?” He asked innocently. “I thought it might be sweet.”

“You are the strangest man I’ve ever met.” Brienne declared. “And I’ve met plenty.”

“I won your hand. They did not. Stands to reason that I had to be a little strange.” Jaime shrugged, his nonchalance finally more than an affectation. Now it was a strategy to get Brienne smiling, and as such, it meant something. “A strange man for the first woman knight of Westeros. A likely pair.”

“You speak of it as if it is a guarantee.” Brienne said. “Do you believe that much in me?”

“I believe I will not have to pay bards to write songs of you, nor will I have to write them myself.” Jaime said earnestly. “And it is good, believe me, that I will not be writing. I cannot spell to save my life.”

“I’ve read your letters.” Brienne laughed. “I needed to decode them.”

“I started making Tyrion write them, halfway through.” Jaime said, embarrassed, and Brienne splayed her hand over the small of his back, pinning him in place so he wouldn’t try to leave her again. “I was-- I was embarrassed. You have such a way with words and I, well, I haven’t been good at much else, beyond swordsmanship.”

“I think you’ll find you’re good at much more than you think.” Brienne said. “Or I will show you in a way that you will have to see it.”

“I look forward to it, lady wife.” Jaime kissed her cheek. “There are a great many things for me to see, it seems.”

* * *

_Dear Jaime,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I will be returning from King’s Landing shortly to supervise your progress in handling matters in the West. I have heard nothing but praise from the staff and cousins alike, but I should like to see you in action myself. I have had no word of your wife nor Tyrion, which I am thankful for. I am glad you are keeping them well in hand. Be mindful of your duties with your wife -- you have been married for some months now, and as such, you should turn your attention toward an heir for the Rock. No need to leave the line of succession in danger for no reason._

_I am also returning to begin preparations for Cersei’s wedding, which will occur in three moons’ time. I expect no complaints from you about this. I understand you and your sister are close, but your feelings have no bearing on her betrothal. You are no longer children; you must stop clinging to each other. It is unseemly._

_You, Brienne, and Tyrion will be expected at the Sept of Baelor to represent our family and I suggest you inform your wife that she will be expected to dress appropriately before the royals. I will not allow what took place at your wedding to occur again._

_Cersei will remain in King’s Landing in my absence and I imagine, between Kevan and Rhaegar, she will be well guarded._

_Do nothing to compromise your sister’s marriage prospects, nor our reputation._

_Any silliness will be punished severely._

_Regards,_  
_ Lord Tywin Lannister_  
_ Hand to King Aerys II Targaryen_  
_ Lord of Casterly Rock_  
_ Lord Paramount of the Westerlands_  
_ Warden of the West_

* * *

Brienne trooped into their bedroom, exhausted, and Jaime stumbled to his feet immediately at the sound of clanking armor. He had been a light sleeper since childhood, which had only annoyed his father -- he would wake Cersei with his cries at the slightest sound, and while Joanna Lannister treasured the chance to spend more time with her squalling children, Tywin Lannister did not feel the same. After she died, Jaime had spent far too many nights awake before ultimately forgetting what it was like for someone to sit with him while he fell back asleep.

“Brienne!” He said, and she noticed him as if for the first time, sleepy eyes struggling to focus on him. He’d left her training to the master-at-arms today, having felt unwell from the moment he woke, and Brienne had obviously been run through the wringer from the exhausted but satisfied look on her face. “Let me-- let me help you.” He approached her slowly, so as not to startle her, in case the adrenaline of hacking away at dummies carried over into an enthusiasm for spousal murder. “You look tired, I could-- I could help.”

“With what?” Her fingers clumsily tugged at the buckles and straps holding her armor together, her head obviously swimming as she tried to keep awake. He knelt at her feet, unfastening her greaves and letting them clatter to the floor. “What are you doing, Jaime?”

“I’m helping.” He looked up at her with a shy smile to find Brienne’s mouth hanging open as she watched him slowly, methodically negotiate his way through removing each piece one by one. He rose to a crouch when the armor demanded it, his face carefully angled away when his fingers paused over the straps keeping her fauld and tasset around her waist and then ignored them entirely, rising to his full height to tackle the matter of her arms.

“Jaime.” She said softly. “I can do this myself.”

He shook his head in silence, gently tugging her gauntlets off before placing them on the end of the bed.

“What’s this about, Jaime?” He peeled the bracer off her right arm first and she brought her bare arm up to his shoulder, curling her hand around the back of his neck. She squeezed lightly, as if to remind him that she was here, while he lost himself in the routine of it, unbuckling her couters before moving on to the engraved pauldrons he had coveted when he’d first gifted them to her. “There’s a lot on your mind today, isn’t there?”

His hands shook under the weight of the pauldron and he was reminded, suddenly, of how quickly the muscle he’d worked for had melted away. He’d had plenty of activity, chasing Brienne around Casterly Rock in the name of training her to be a great knight, the likes of which innumerable ballads would be written about, but in doing so, he’d begun to realize that he was hardly a knight anymore himself. He wasn’t as strong as he had been, and he’d been lucky to keep his speed, but that was simple compared to the hard work of riding, the technique necessary to win a joust, the thrill of a battle.

He doubted he was any good now. If Ser Arthur Dayne saw Jaime as he was now, a thin, fragile lordling that played at knighthood when it suited him, he would be ashamed. He had seen so much potential in Jaime after the Kingswood Brotherhood had been defeated, and sometimes he still dreamed of the white cloak in his hands at Harrenhal like it had happened here too. He woke from those dreams with his wife in his bed, which told him they were false, whispers of a life that had already been lived, and everyone having been all the worse for it.

He removed her other pauldron, setting it aside, and Brienne grabbed him by the shoulders none too gently before using one sweaty hand to tip his chin up.

“Jaime.” She said, his name a weapon in her mouth. “Stop.”

He paused, fingers at the buckles of her breastplate.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked, and he swallowed hard. “If you don’t want to talk to me yet, just say that. It’s-- it’s unnerving, this silence. Even the servant who helps me speaks.”

“Would you prefer her?” Jaime asked hoarsely. “To your husband?”

“No.” Brienne said honestly. “No, I wouldn’t.” She stank of sweat and dirt and Jaime breathed it in like the sweetest fragrance of all. He had been able to spend hours in the training yard like she did, once upon a time. It felt like a lifetime ago. “My husband helps me for love. She helps me because my husband asked her to.”

“If this is all your husband can do, is he any better than such a servant?” Jaime’s voice shook as he pulled Brienne’s gorget away from her neck, placing it with the rest of the pieces he’d removed. She looked naked, without the armor he’d had made for her, looked vulnerable. He hated it, and by the look of her, she hated it just as much.

“No other man in the Seven Kingdoms would have me for what I am. My husband proudly called them cowards.” Brienne’s hands were upon him in an instant, no amount of tiredness capable of dulling her reflexes. Her touch was like wildfire, consuming him entirely from every point of contact, and he was reminded of Aerys’ caches beneath King’s Landing, caches that likely existed right now, right now, and he wasn’t doing anything about it. “My husband trains with me, to the best of his ability, and sends men to continue my education when he cannot. He cares for me as a husband might, as a squire might, as a lord might, all in one. He need not be everything to me, but he is.”

“You would not love a liar.” Jaime said, eyes flicking up to hers, and she beamed. “You have no patience for false flattery.”

“You’re terrible at flattery, false or not.” Brienne said. “So why should I not love you more than all others?”

“Father is on his way home from King’s Landing. To check on us.” Jaime said, and Brienne cursed under her breath, slipping an arm around his waist so he had no choice but to stumble into her. They held each other up, but just barely, his face buried in the side of her neck and her forehead braced against his shoulder. “He asked me if I were making myself useful for once. If I’d put a babe in you so he could claim I had done something worthwhile with my time.”

Brienne squawked in disbelief and Jaime burst into laughter, pressing a soft kiss into the delicate place where her neck met her shoulder.

“He’s delegated nearly everything to you! You went from nothing to performing the duties of the Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Warden of the West just because we’d gotten married!” Brienne sounded beyond outraged, like she would gladly strangle Tywin at the gates to his own home. “And beyond that, you’ve been supervising my training and covering for the things I won’t do besides, and on top of that, you’ve functionally been Tyrion’s father!” She shook her head, clearly furious, and Jaime sighed, running a hand up and down the slight curve of her hip. “He knows nothing of your worth, of what miracles you have wrought.”

“No miracle matters to him more than securing the Rock for another generation. I could have every vassal’s coffers overflowing, everyone’s storehouses full of grain for winter, and he would call it inadequate.” Jaime’s lower lip wobbled. “No matter what I do, it is enough for you. You treat everything I do like a kindness. I only-- I only helped you out of your armor so you could sleep before dinner, and here I am, keeping you awake instead.”

“I would rather be awake with you than sleeping soundly for a thousand nights.” Brienne said softly. She traced his lips with a finger and he jokingly darted his tongue out to lick at the tip. “Jaime, honestly--” He shrugged helplessly. “We will have plenty of time to sleep once your father is here. I don’t see why we should waste perfectly good, stress free time on sleep.”

“You’ll miss dinner if you don’t sleep.” Jaime said. “Look, you’re already flagging.” It was true -- he had been taking on more and more of her weight as they spoke. “Come, Brienne, to bed with you.” He kissed her dry, cracked lips. “And me as well, I think. I-- I would like to give you company, if you don’t mind it.”

“You want to watch me sleep.” Brienne raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Jaime frowned. “When did I say that?”

“I-- Well, you told me to go to bed to sleep, and that you would join me, so I don’t know what you would want me to assume!”

“I--” Jaime led her toward the bed, mindful of her aching joints and sore muscles. “I don’t know either.”

“The master-at-arms said I looked the part of a knight today.” Brienne whispered to him, once they were under the covers, half-drunk on the promise of sleep. “That he couldn’t tell me from any man with my helm on.”

“You weren’t wearing it. When you came in.” Jaime realized dimly. “What happened?”

“I took it off.” Brienne smiled, eyes closed. “So he knew me for who I was when I bested him.”

“I would expect nothing less from my wife.” Jaime laughed. “Ser wife, soon enough.”

Brienne chortled.

“Should I address you so, where others can hear?” Jaime teased. “Bow grandly and say ‘ser wife, may I have the privilege of being escorted by you’? You said I was your damsel in distress, once, but I can’t let you make all the decisions.”

“Ser wife.” Brienne said it aloud, as if testing the strength of the words. “I quite like it.”

“I do too.” Jaime confessed. “Shall we practice? Or would you like to save it for when you are knighted?”

“Save it.” Brienne said. “It will be all the sweeter then.”

* * *

When Tywin Lannister entered any room, the temperature dropped ten degrees. His face looked like it had been cut from dragonglass, all sharp, cutting edges and as cold as winter, and that was when he was not looking at his children. For them, he reserved a special fury, the Lannister roar that their words spoke so highly of. The biting, condescending farces of advice he would offer, upon merely catching sight of Jaime or Tyrion, cemented that disgust in both of their minds, though Tyrion dealt with it much more easily than Jaime ever had.

But now, as the hall emptied of small folk and lesser Lannisters and Jaime sat stiff in his chair, he found his father looking at him curiously, as if trying to size him up rather than tear him down. Jaime sat up straighter, kept his shoulders back in a parody of relaxation and his face blank. Perhaps those empty gestures would look close enough to comportment to his father to weasel his way out of a beating for some minor flaw he hadn’t noticed.

“The reports are true, then.” Tywin said, as though it pained him to admit his eldest son might be worth anything at all. “You have behaved yourself.”

“I have done my best.” Jaime said nervously. It had to be trap. There was something in this for his father, something he was looking for so he could manipulate it. “Your steward has helped me greatly.” He bowed his head, hoping that he wasn’t taking too much credit, that he didn’t seem too proud.

Outside the bounds of Casterly Rock, it was a crime for any Lannister to be seen as anything less than recklessly, stupidly confident. Inside it, it was a crime to believe anything but the worst of yourself, so deeply and thoroughly that you saw no escape.

“Have you given any thought to where your brother might foster?” The last time Tywin had been home, he’d charged Jaime with coming up with an answer before they saw each other next. He hadn’t known that Jaime’s answer would come instantaneously, would only need confirmation from the other party.

“Tarth.” Jaime said simply. “Lord Selwyn has taken a liking to him and wishes to teach Tyrion everything he knows about diplomacy and strategy. He was a knight in his youth and so he’s uniquely qualified to teach Tyrion of battle and self-defense while also treating him as his own son, being my good-father.”

Tywin looked surprised and Jaime relished it.

“Have you spoken to Lord Selwyn?” Tywin asked, the familiar shark like desire for blood creeping back into his eyes. Whether Tywin would concede the point and allow Jaime’s words to become reality or not, Jaime had borrowed more trouble than he could pay for. And he found himself not minding one whit. If it suited Tyrion, if it did good for Tyrion (and Lord Selwyn besides), he could bear any beating, could smile through any strategic disembowelment of his soul.

“Yes.” Jaime said, braver than he had any right to be. “I advised him that it may be after Cersei’s wedding, and he said he would take Tyrion gladly, whenever he was to come to Tarth.”

“You hardly need me.” Tywin sneered.

“Wasn’t that the object?” Jaime feigned innocence. “That you could focus on being Hand to Aerys and brokering Cersei’s marriage with me in charge of the day to day operations of the Rock?”

“It was.” Tywin conceded.

“So we are both satisfied, then.” Jaime smiled. “You are leaving the Rock in good hands and I am keeping it there.”

“I suppose so.” Tywin grumbled.

* * *

“Perfect!” Jaime said as Brienne executed the block she’d been struggling to master for the past week and a half. It was seamless, the highest form of art, and the pride in her eyes could feed a starving village for a month. He wanted to fall to his knees, wanted to earn her approval, wanted that pride to wash over him. “Brienne!”

She swept him up in her arms, ignoring the weight of the padding he was wearing, and he laughed, throwing his arms around her neck. Their little corner of the world, impenetrable, where they could be themselves -- he hadn’t realized what a gift it was, the little hidden passageway where he had tried to train his left hand, until Brienne had lit it up with her presence.

“You’ll be the best in Westeros.” Jaime said breathlessly, all too aware of how close their faces were to each other, the miniscule distance between their lips, the stubborn, clinging intimacy of it.

“The best what?” Brienne set him down on the ground gently and he pulled himself up onto his tip toes so they were at eye level, leaning in for a kiss.

“The best at everything.” Jaime said, as if it were no question at all. “Why?”

“You are too good to me.” Brienne said, pulling him into another kiss, and he grinned against her lips. “Weren’t you supposed to meet with your father?”

“He can wait.” Jaime said. “He’s not you.”

“Sweet though that is, he does have limited time.” Brienne brushed his hair out of his face. “What if I come along?”

“That might be doable.” Jaime said, though a shiver ran through him at the thought of speaking to Tywin again. “We can do that.”

“No need to do anything.” Tywin said coldly and Jaime disentangled himself from Brienne in an instant, shoving her behind him. “What is this, Jaime?”

“My wife wishes to learn to defend herself.” Jaime said, with the same burning intensity his father imbued every word with. “As a good husband, I am assisting her.”

“What does a woman need to defend herself against?”

“Good people are rare, and good intentions are rarer still.” Jaime glowered at his father. “Everyone should know something of fighting, at least.”

“And that is why your wife has a full suit of armor, is it?”

“Yes.” Jaime said, head held high. “Because she will be the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms someday.”

Brienne’s hands were tight in the fabric of his shirt, keeping his shoulders immobile, but he couldn’t bear to shake them off.

“She will be a knight?” Tywin said incredulously. “Jaime, there isn’t time for your antics--”

“She will be.” Jaime said resolutely. “I know my wife better than you ever will. She gets what she wants. She works hard for it. And she doesn’t need you condescending to her for it.”

“You dare speak to your father that way?” Tywin hissed.

“I dare that and more.” Jaime said. “Brienne, leave.”

“I will not just stand aside, Jaime--”

“To our rooms, now.” Jaime’s eyes were locked on Tywin’s, the ghost of Tywin’s own bloodthirsty sneer on his face. “Please.” His voice shook, though the murderous look on his face belied nothing. “I-- I can’t-- Brienne, please.”

Her retreating footsteps broke his heart.

“If you have anything to say about my wife, say it to me.” Jaime spat. “And if you have anything less than kind to say? Don’t say it at all.” He clenched his hands into fists. “If you want to fight, Father, now is the time.”

“You disgust me.” Tywin’s face twisted like it was melting. “Everything about you disgusts me.”

“You’re not alone in that.” Jaime said. “But I find myself not caring at all.”

* * *

Jaime settled into the bath hours later, lightheaded and red in the face from yelling, his heartbeat throbbing out of time in his right hand.

He stared down at the shifting surface of the water, the dirt on his skin leaching off into it, floating away aimlessly, carried wherever the water wished. Jaime never thought he would see the day when he empathized with dirt, but it had come for him, in the wake of Tywin’s thunderstorm of a parenting attempt. He wasn’t ashamed of what happened or how he’d behaved. He’d known Tywin would express his displeasure just like he always had and knew that, as Brienne’s husband, he wanted to stand up for her no matter what the cost to him was.

He was just ashamed that she’d witnessed it.

She knew nothing of what his family was like. The only child of a father that adored her so much that he indulged her every desire, Brienne had no idea what it was like to be seen as a legacy and not a person. Lord Selwyn had treated her like she was made of gold, a statue no man could deserve, least of all himself, and Brienne had grown up basking in the sunshine of such an all-consuming, devoted love. She could never understand what it was like to roam Casterly Rock searching for one person who would meet her eyes, one person to confirm that she was alive and not just imagining it all.

Tywin Lannister had no true children -- he had an heir, a marriageable daughter, and a spare. There was no place for Brienne in that awful circus.

Jaime worried for Tyrion often -- Tywin may have disliked Jaime from the moment of his birth, only seen his use as far as his ability to perform as a future Lord of the Rock, but that was nothing compared to how deeply he despised Tyrion. With Jaime married off, he worried that Tywin would find some way to send his brother away. Especially if Brienne bore a son. That son would eliminate the need for Tyrion to stay at the Rock, not that his father saw a need even now -- he was clamoring for Tyrion to be sent away to foster, and now, with Brienne’s “bad influence” to rail against, he would likely do it quicker than not.

Jaime would have to book Tyrion’s passage to Tarth sooner than later, if he didn’t want his brother somewhere in the Vale, ridiculed by everyone around him.

“Can I join you?” Brienne asked and Jaime startled, nearly sinking below the water as he choked on his own spit, and Brienne hauled him out of the water with her hands under his armpits all at once, careless of bumping him against the sides of stone bath. “Jaime! Jaime!”

He remembered, all at once, that her brother had drowned when she was young.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Shivering, he curled up against her. “I just-- I was thinking and I just--”

“Don’t think about it anymore.” Brienne said sharply. “At least not near water.” She brushed the water from his face. “I’ll help you wash.” She lead him into the bath again before turning away to undress.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, wife.” Jaime said, rubbing his eyes.

The warmth of the water lulled him into a sense of calmness, but anxiety still bubbled beneath -- he didn’t want to scare Brienne, not after his father had done more than enough on that count. She slid into the bath, not looking directly at him until everything scandalous was below the waterline, and he indulged her in that, staring resolutely at his feet, distorted through the water.

“I was just wondering.” Jaime said. His words sounded garbled to his own ears, like they were waterlogged, and he blinked slowly as Brienne slowly closed the distance between them, taking him into her arms. He threw his arms around her neck, wrapping his legs around her waist like a child in need of comfort, and she scooped up water in a hand to dump right onto his head, laughing as he sneezed and shivered.

“Your hair is dirty.” She said fondly, stroking the line of his jaw with her thumb. “Was it too hard to wash? Is your hand okay?” When Jaime shook his head slowly, she sighed. “It’s alright, I can help. Sit on the step.” He shook his head again and she laughed, adjusting her grip on him. “Fine. For however long you need.” He nuzzled her neck and she rested her cheek on the top of his head. “He can say what he wants, Jaime. I know you help me because you love me. Because you want to do the right thing. We don’t have to listen to him.”

“Do you listen to your father?” Jaime asked, his words muffled by Brienne’s skin.

“When he has good things to say.” She ran a sponge over his shoulders and he leaned forward into her, to the sound of her laughter. “Good, I can reach your back this way.” She scrubbed his back in circles as he murmured meaningless words against her shoulder, punctuated by little kisses when he could summon the presence of mind to care about anything beyond Brienne’s hands on him. “Is he like this all the time? To you and Tyrion?”

“Worse. He still thinks of you as company, so he’s holding his tongue.” Jaime said and Brienne recoiled in shock, nearly dropping Jaime in the bath again. “He’s usually worse.” He said again, as if he couldn’t believe it himself, that what Tywin had done today was nothing on the grand scale of what had been done to him before. “We didn’t know it was wrong, before you. How we were treated. And now it hurts, and it didn’t before.”

Brienne remained silent, though her hands were gentler after he’d spoken, as if daring him to continue.

“I-- I hid behind Cersei and I let her talk back on my behalf because-- because he wouldn’t hurt a woman. And she wanted things I couldn’t-- I couldn’t give her in good faith in return. She just-- she wanted to be like him, so she took what she wanted from me, from Tyrion, from-- from anyone by force. It didn’t matter what we said. She hurt me. She wanted me to do horrible things for her, to--to prove I’d be loyal. To prove to her that I was worth it.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And she was the only one who would say those things to him because she was the only one who could. And now she’s gone and promised to another family and-- it’s just me and Tyrion. And Tyrion’s a child, he can’t-- he can’t do much, not when Father hates him to begin with.”

“So you think it has to be you.” Brienne poured water over his head, setting to work on his hair. “To talk back for Tyrion.”

“For you.” Jaime said, eyes as bright as emeralds, his smile slightly off-center. “For you too.”

“You do not need to fight for me. I proved myself today. He should fear me.” Brienne said. “I will protect you and Tyrion, should you need it. You have done enough for me, Jaime.” He reached out for her again, feeling like a blubbering infant, and she pulled him close, murmuring nonsense into the top of his head. “I will not ask anything from you that you do not want to give, Jaime. You do not have to ask me to speak up for you.”

“I didn’t.” Jaime mumbled.

“You should not need to. There should have been someone who would have spoken up for you. My father did so for me. Your father…” She trailed off with a wince. “Sometimes having a parent is worse than having none at all.”

“Not for you.” Jaime said sadly. “Your father is perfect.”

“He’s your father too.” Brienne corrected. “Forget Tywin, you have a father on Tarth that loves you as much as I do. And so does Tyrion.”

“Then Tyrion will have a father that loves him.” Jaime said, as Brienne frowned. “He is to foster on Tarth, with your father. I wrote him about it a few months ago.”

Brienne stared at him in shock. “When? Does Tyrion know?”

“I thought he could go after his next nameday, but…” He hung his head. “We are bad influences in his eyes, Brienne. You aspiring to knighthood and I-- I am…” He laughed shrilly. “I am the disgusting, broken son he never wanted. He already has half a man for one son, and now he has two. The two of us, we might teach Tyrion that it is perfectly acceptable to not aspire to blend in.” He grit his teeth. “I would not be surprised if Father takes Tyrion back to King’s Landing when he leaves and books him passage from there.”

“He’s a child!” Brienne protested. “He needs us!”

“And he will have your father, who has done a brilliant job of raising the best woman I know, to teach him that he is much more than Tywin Lannister ever dreamed he could be.” Jaime said. “What matters is that we are happy. And I know what will make us happy.” He grabbed the side of the bath for support, hauling himself up and out using his left hand. “Follow me.”

“Jaime!” Brienne climbed up out of the bath. “You can’t run around the Rock naked as your nameday.” She tossed him a set of smallclothes he’d brought downstairs with him and he tugged them on before pulling the roughspun he slept in on one handed.

“Hurry, Brienne. Hurry.” He was nearly vibrating with tension. “I need to-- I need to do it now. I need to do this now. Right now.”

She dressed quickly and efficiently and he took her hand, dragging her behind him as he raced up to Tyrion’s room, and banged on the door far too loudly.

“What?” Tyrion had obviously been asleep, still cloudy eyed and messy haired as he stood in his doorway. “What’s wrong, Jaime?”

“Come with us.” Jaime said, feeling braver than he ever had in his life. “I need you to see something.” The three continued on to Jaime and Brienne’s bedroom, just a few doors down from Tywin’s own. If they made enough noise, if she was pleased enough, Tywin would be able to hear them.

Jaime’s heart sang at the thought.

He took up his sword, which had been a decoration more than anything else until now, weighing it carefully in his right hand before switching it to his left.

“What is it, brother?” Tyrion asked. “What are you doing?”

“Kneel, Brienne.” Jaime said, in the softest, gentlest tone he could manage, in the same tone Brienne had used with him in the bath. “Before me, please, my arms aren’t nearly as long as yours.”

“Jaime?” Brienne’s voice shook, but she knelt before him nonetheless, prouder than any Lannister he’d ever known, nothing but appreciation in her eyes. “Jaime, what is this?”

“Any knight can make a knight.” Jaime said. “I may not be much of one anymore, but you are. And the greatest-- the greatest act of service I can do, as your husband, is to make it official.” He smiled, to set her at ease, though he thought he probably still looked a bit mad. “If you’ll have it.”

“I-- If I’ll have it? Jaime!” Brienne exclaimed and he laughed as he’d never laughed before, the flat of his sword hovering just above her shoulder.

“Tyrion, come closer.” Jaime said. “I want you to see it. And I want you to tell everyone at breakfast tomorrow exactly how it happened.”

Tyrion grinned, his mismatched eyes alight with pleasure. “Nothing would make me happier.”

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” He tapped her right shoulder with the flat of his sword. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” He tapped her left shoulder. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” He lost his grip on the sword, his hand sweaty, and it clattered to the floor. Neither of them noticed, having only eyes for each other. “Arise, Ser Brienne Lannister of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyrion whooped loudly, clapping as loudly as he could, and glanced out the door to see if it had attracted any attention. When he saw the hallway empty, he screamed a little louder, stomping his feet.

“Could’ve picked a better time.” He allowed, in between hollering like a stuck pig. “A more high traffic time.”

Jaime hardly noticed Tyrion carrying on, as Brienne had risen to her feet, slowly but surely, as if she still could not believe what had taken place. She reached out for him with shaking hands and he took her into his arms, embracing her as tightly as he could.

“You deserved this.” He said, for her ears only. “You deserved this before me. You will deserve this after me. These vows are for you to keep for as long as you should want them.” He carefully pulled away to hold her at arm’s length, his wife, his knight in shining armor, his savior. “And there has been no better knight in Westeros before you, Brienne, nor do I think there ever will be one after.”

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but instead swallowed hard, wetting her lips as she tried to even her breathing.

“You came into this house, full of… full of hateful people and hateful history and you fixed it. You fixed us. Whatever was worth seeing the good in, you saw it. You made it real.” Jaime took her hands in his. It felt like they were in the Sept again, promising themselves to each other, but this time it felt real, like the words meant something, like they weren’t just phrases from a book that had been said by thousands of couples before them. “You were ready for this long ago. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Kept me waiting?” Brienne repeated. “As if you could wait for anything.”

They laughed together then, both halfway to tears, their hands clasped together, Jaime’s sword forgotten on the floor beside her. Their whole world had narrowed to their hands clasped together, to each other’s smiles, to the wild drumbeat of their hearts. No words passed between them because nothing they had to say to each other required words.

“Ser wife.” Jaime whispered, well aware that he looked foolish. “Shall we share our good news?”

“Gladly.” Brienne smiled, diving in for a quick peck on the lips.

“I’m glad I’m going to Tarth.” Tyrion said, to no one in particular. “At least I won’t have to see this.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> i cannot tell you how much it means to me to hear that people got all the way through this monster of a fic. part three is coming along very slowly, but coming indeed. i've started grad school now so i'm short on time, attention, and brainspace for imagining endings for our babies, but i'm making it happen in the free time i have! political intrigue (and yes, part three is so heavy on that) is tougher for me to write, but i like the challenge. hopefully the finished product is as enjoyable as writing it has been!
> 
> come hang out with me on my [fandom twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aheartcalldhome) if you'd like to make a friend and please don't hesitate to leave your thoughts below! i'd love to know what parts of it struck you and stuck with you!
> 
> -s


End file.
